


Restless from the searching, worn down in between

by sarcasticbones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, College, Daddy Kink, Derek Has a Big Dick, F/M, Kinky, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory Negotiations, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Sexting, Shower Sex, Sleepy Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Top Stiles Stilinski, gratuitous cursing, uh oh feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 00:10:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11092806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticbones/pseuds/sarcasticbones
Summary: See, the problem is not so much that Stiles is gorgeous, and just Derek’s type, or even that he seems to be partnered. No. The problem is, that Stiles is shameless.





	1. Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> um ... so ... I was kind of having a really tough time in addition to a tough workload, but it seems to be lifting, and how else to celebrate it than by writing some porn. Right? Right. There are a couple of scenes, down to the words people speak, that my brain keeps poking me with. Relentlessly. So I thought, ok, I will write them into a story. They clearly want to be a story. It's planned as a PWP, but knowing myself, if will be PWsomePlot.   
> I will add tags as we go.   
> Title is a lyric from "Brother" by needtobreathe that Jensen sings. yeah yeah, crossed streams.   
> Comments are love, thanks for reading <3.

Derek knows he’s fucked almost at the exact moment he sees Stiles for the first time. And it makes no difference. 

The story goes like this. 

Erica gets pregnant. And somewhat to Derek’s surprise, she decides to actually do the whole baby thing, so Boyd and her take some time off. Take time off, flunk out, it’s a matter of interpretation. So, suddenly, and last minute, Derek has nowhere to live, because the owner, when hearing that two of her tenants are leaving, says she’s been meaning to sell the apartment anyway, so she’s not interested in Derek flash-finding some other desperate, homeless college students to take over from Erica and Boyd.  
So instead, it is Derek, who is desperate and homeless.  
Thus, when Boyd says that his stoner friend Scott has an empty room in this rickety house off campus, one town over, Derek says he’ll take it. Without seeing the house or really remembering which one of Boyd’s many stoner friends Scott is. Living with stoners can be less clean than Derek prefers, and perpetually snackless, which he doesn’t really care about, but at least stoners, as a rule, don’t complain about Derek’s fieldwork gear and occasional slimy jars of samples. 

So, it is when Derek is moving in that Stiles opens the door; wearing a pair of threadbare jeans and a t-shirt that says: “not gay as in happy, but queer as in fuck you.” He gives Derek the most unsubtle once over, and smiles a wide, wicked smile that forces Derek to take an actual, physical step back.  
That step just allows better perspective though, which … not helpful. Because Stiles is all long, lean lines - long arms; long fingers - so long, god, fuck; thin wrists and then suddenly these surprisingly wide shoulders; a long elegant neck; ridiculously long legs. It’s like his bones are big, but his flesh is all mean and lean.  
And then he opens his wide, pink mouth; squints his eyes, framed by dark, spiky eyelashes; and says: “dude, you’re gorgeous, are you down to fuck?” flings the door open, adds: “oh, I’m Stiles, Scott’s not here.” Then: “do you need help with your boxes?” and before Derek manages to respond to any of this, his phone goes off, which he answers with: “hey baby? Oh? Yeah, the new guy is here, he’s stupid hot,” and wanders into the depths of the house, leaving Derek standing in the open door, with an open mouth. Because, what.

See, the problem is not so much that Stiles is gorgeous, and just Derek’s type, or even that he seems to be partnered. No. The problem is, that Stiles is shameless. And while Derek is not repressed, nor dragging around a bag of Portnoy’s-complaint-like issues; he was “raised right.” So he has a myriad of little things he finds wrong, or bad, or embarrassing to the point of a hot, painful flush that starts somewhere in his balls and breaks out in sweat on his back. And Stiles seems like he most definitely doesn’t have any of those things, but would immensely enjoy Derek’s. Hence, in the back of his head, Derek knows that he’s fucked from the get go. But, he believes in his ability to keep it in check. He’s met trouble before. Trouble likes Derek, because Derek is stupid hot, as Stiles just observed, yet reasonably kind, and good at most of the things he does. So trouble seeks him out, pours itself into girls with hair too long, and with too many split ends, or boys with wild, hungry cat eyes; clings to Derek, looking for salvation, or hoping for the spectacle of corrupting him. But trouble has been doing that since Derek was 15. So he’s made his mistakes a long time ago, back when they cost less than they could have, and he could ask his mom to help figure things out. So generally speaking, Derek can deal with trouble. 

He drags his boxes into the house; then trails down the way Stiles disappeared, looking for an empty room or guidance to one. Instead, he finds Stiles sitting in a shitty, green leather armchair, thighs spread, jeans undone, lazily jerking off while still on the phone. His dick is pale and plump and, like everything else about Stiles, long. Spit pools in Derek’s mouth, so it takes him a bit longer than strictly necessary to find a semi-acceptable reaction to walking in on your new housemate jerking it. Derek puts both of his hands up in a universal ‘mea culpa,’ and starts turning on his heel, but Stiles says: “hang on a sec,” lifts the hand off his dick, and holds up a finger at Derek. His dick sways and smacks into his belly.  
“Your room is the last door to the right,” Stiles says, head tilted where he’s pressing the phone between his ear and his shoulder. Derek stares first at his dick, then at his fingers, then back at his dick, lost between which one is a worse thing to do, or which one he likes more.  
“But you’re most welcome to join me,” Stiles adds with a little honey in his voice, and wraps the fingers he just pointed at Derek back around his dick.  
Derek flees. He thinks he hears Stiles say: “nah, better luck next time” to whoever it is he’s on the phone with.

They settle into a routine of sorts after that. Derek leaves early in the mornings on most weekdays and comes back late, so he nearly never sees Scott, who sleeps late and works at a bar. He sees Stiles almost every morning though. They share the quiet kitchen as they eat their cereal and drink their coffee, and unlike most other trouble Derek has met, Stiles doesn’t push. It’s abundantly clear that the offer is still on the table - he lets his eyes linger on Derek, dragging them over his body in slow, sticky sweeps that make Derek's skin break out in goosebumps. He gives insightful compliments that make Derek stop and stare, and helplessly rub his hands through his hair as his control crumbles, crumbles. But he doesn’t push. Also unlike most other trouble Derek has met, Stiles seems to be a fascinating person even beyond his eye-catching façade of blatancy and charm. He is intelligent, quick witted and his sense of humor matches Derek’s. He seems to study hard enough, and spends unsettling amounts of time on the phone with his boyfriend, whose name Derek still doesn’t know, because Stiles only refers to him as “baby” or D, and who seems to be at least aware of the fact that Stiles finds Derek hot, because Derek has personally heard Stiles say that, while on the phone, at least 5 times. He tries to not think too much about what that means about Stiles' relationship, because that might open the window for thinking about how much he wants to know what Stiles skin tastes like. So he settles into a routine of morning coffees with Stiles, and Saturdays lounging around with Stiles, Scott, Scott’s girlfriend and occasional other visitors, and spends the rest of his time like he’s always spent it - in class, RA-ing in the lab with professor Deaton, running out to Deaton’s numerous field sites to bring stuff there or from there, or working out. Sundays are for sleeping, or errands, or catching up with schoolwork, so the house is quiet and everyone’s bedroom door stays closed. It's only natural that Derek’s vigilance wanes. He starts seeing Stiles less as trouble and more as a person. A beautiful, funny one - though, yes, also a somewhat maniacal one, one that bristles hard at authority - but overall, not a bad person. Stiles seems to toe a very fine line that leaves him just on this side of extravagant, instead of tipping him over to ‘possibly sociopathic’ and ‘definitely dangerous to be friends with’. He seems allergic to norms and normativity, to the extent where his face contorts into a grimace of disdain, when “this is how it has always been” or “that’s not normal” come up. But he doesn’t lack empathy. He’s fully aware of his own nuclear strength sexuality and its effect on people, but for the most part he doesn’t weaponize it. It feels like there’s a story there, somewhere in Stiles’ childhood, but there’s a story in everyone’s childhood and Derek doesn’t feel the need to poke.


	2. Open carry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How are you even real,” Stiles says, but doesn’t lift his eyes, his gaze drips over Derek’s abs like hot wax. And Derek really, honestly doesn’t do this, ok? He’s above this. Really, he is. It’s tacky, and he knows better. But he’s hot, and buzzed, and Stiles is like a fucking bite on the inside of his cheek. He can’t stop tonguing it even though he knows it will just make it ache more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> onwards with the self-care porno. thanks for doing this with me <3

It’s a stupidly warm October Saturday, indicative of the fact that the humankind has, indeed, totally fucked up the beautiful blue planet, and the thought depresses Derek so much he starts accepting beers people offer him at noon. There’s an impromptu yard party happening at their place. Even Erica and Boyd are there. Erica doesn’t have a belly yet, but her boobs are huge and have blue veins on them. It makes Derek feel mildly alarmed, but seems to just make Boyd want to keep Erica close, better yet at home, so he can fuck her full of come, make sure it sticks. It’s both endearing and nauseating. Derek flips between the two. 

There’s a small group of people smoking up with Scott on the porch, and a little off to the side, Stiles is talking to some dude Derek hasn’t met before. Derek thinks his name might be Isaac, which, stupid name, huh. He also thinks the guy is too pretty, and stands far too close to Stiles, and thinking that annoys the holy hell out of him. But the more beer he drinks the less he remembers, why he shouldn’t care, and the more he wants to go over there and drag Stiles away by the hand. Possibly by the scruff of his neck. He blows a whistling exhale into his nearly empty beer, plucks Boyd’s sunglasses off the dude’s head and slits his eyes behind them. There. Now he can stealthily keep an eye on Stiles, while pretending to maintain a modicum of a conversation with Boyd. Excellent life skills. Luckily conversations with Boyd are a tempered affair, so he can multitask. And Boyd is trying to multitask his own raging boner for his preggo girlfriend, so he’s not even giving Derek his usual, knowing smirk. 

Isaac, or whatever his name is, is almost as long and lean as Stiles, but lacks Stiles’ sharp edges. His skin is pale, where Stiles’ is tanned; his hair blond and curly, where Stiles’ is dark and spiky. His face looks like it should be pouting, stupidly, in a perfume ad; but right now it’s happy and animated, his eyes are sparkling, as he full-body laughs at whatever Stiles is saying. Derek runs his tongue along the lip of his beer and the bitterness of hops amplifies the green tang of jealousy already rolling on his tongue. It’s ridiculous. Derek is so annoyed with himself. But he can’t stop looking either. Stiles waves his fingers through the air - wide like bird wings, wild accents to whatever story silk he’s spinning. Derek can feel Isaac being wrapped up, drawn in. Inch by inch, cell by cell. Isaac angles his body and tilts his hips. It’s almost like there are marionette strings anchored into his bones, one by one, pulled by whatever it is that lives in Stiles. A siren. A magician. A succubus.

Erica slaps his shoulder, and the sharp sting of her small hand is a moment’s relief.   
“What?” Derek asks.   
“What,” Erica mocks him.   
Derek shrugs, takes another swill of his beer, decides to finish it as it’s getting warm.  
“What’s up with that?” Erica asks; squinting her heavily made up eyes at Stiles and Isaac. Derek clenches his teeth. Isaac says something that has Stiles almost keeling over in laughter, so he places a hand on Isaac’s shoulder to keep his balance, but leaves it there, when it’s regained. It’s broad and dark against Isaac’s pale flesh. His fingernails are cut too short, maybe bitten down? Derek hasn’t seen him biting his nails. But maybe he would, if he didn’t keep them cut so short? Derek stares, even though Erica is staring at him. It’s like a punch in the gut, when Stiles brushes his thumb across Isaac’s clavicle.   
“Dude,” Erica says in a bewildered tone.   
And she’s right. Derek doesn’t do this. And Stiles is trouble.   
“I’m fucking boiling out here,” Derek grumbles, stretches his legs in front of him. The denim of his jeans is clinging to the back of his thighs.   
“Yeah, it’s getting steamy,” Erica says, still looking at Isaac and Stiles. Because she’s evil.   
“I’m gonna have a heatstroke in October, and it’s because of all the plastic crap you buy,” Derek snipes back.   
Erica flips him the bird.   
Derek wipes his face with the hem of his t-shirt.  
When he lowers it, Erica is smiling a predator smile, and Stiles is looking in their direction with a semi-vacant expression.   
“What did you do,” Derek whispers through clenched teeth.  
“Nothing, stop being paranoid,” Erica whispers back. Boyd rolls his eyes.   
“Go change out of your fucking winter clothes,” Erica suggests: “you’re starting to stink.” She pulls a face at Derek. Her eyes are a little too innocent, but Derek’s had four beers, and changing out of his jeans sounds like an excellent plan. Still, he pulls his shoulder up and sniffs indignantly, huffs an: “I don’t smell!” but gets up nonetheless.  
“Bring me back a popsicle,” Erica yells as he heads in the house. 

He finds a pair of basketball shorts and tosses his sweaty t-shirt into the hamper, contemplates a fresh one for a second, but the light breeze from the window feels too good on his skin. He’s digging in the freezer for Erica’s coconut popsicle when he hears Stiles gasp an overly dramatic “holy fuck,” behind his back.   
“Are you shitting me?” Stiles demands, when Derek turns around.   
“What?” Derek asks.   
Stiles holds both of his hands out accusingly.  
“My entire presence offends you?” Derek offers with a half smile, because Stiles is blinking slowly, staring at Derek’s chest. And Derek knows he’s ripped, ok? He knows. And while he doesn’t exactly mind people drooling over his body, it’s not something he seeks out either.   
Seems a little cheap. He was raised better. By a family of very good looking people. It’s not nice to preen.  
“How are you even real,” Stiles says, but doesn’t lift his eyes, his gaze drips over Derek’s abs like hot wax. And Derek really, honestly doesn’t do this, ok? He’s above this. Really, he is. It’s tacky, and he knows better. But he’s hot, and buzzed, and Stiles is like a fucking bite on the inside of his cheek. He can’t stop tonguing it even though he knows it will just make it ache more.   
So Derek closes the freezer and leans back against the counter, straightens his legs, flexes his hips, and crosses his ankles.   
Stiles’ upheld arms jerk and fall in defeat, and he’s straight out staring at Derek’s junk now. An open, unabashed, hungry stare; with a faint pink blush spreading on his neck. He opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. Closes it, and Derek’s eyes follow the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. It makes Derek feel like a less of a dick for, well ... flaunting his dick. Stiles opens his mouth again, licks his lower lip and finally, slowly, so slowly, looks up at Derek’s face. There’s a particular moment, when he finds his center again - a slight shift in body language, followed by a dark, blatantly sultry look.   
“You have a CCW permit for that?” Stiles asks, tilting his head, smiling a small, intimate smile of a man feeding a purposefully bad line to a lover. It goes straight to Derek’s balls.   
“Open carry,” Derek says, flicking that same smile back at Stiles.   
Stiles groans and rubs his head, pulls at a fistful of his own hair.   
“Not cool man,” he says, eyes still dangerous.  
“What’s not cool?”  
“Toying with another man’s poor battered heart,” Stiles is pressing both of his broad palms on his chest, pulling his face into a hilarious, aghast grimace.   
“Poor battered dick, you mean,” Derek says, and he’s not sure what he’s doing, or why he’s doing it. Just feels like the wheels are about to come off, yet he wants to go faster and faster.   
“My dick’s neither poor nor battered,” Stiles declares and adjusts it in an obscenely open manner.   
“It might not be that,” Stiles points at Derek’s crotch: “but it gets five star reviews.”  
Derek laughs. He feels high. He feels light and airy and seven feet tall.   
“So what would your partner say,” he asks off of that high.   
“About what?” Stiles asks, takes a step closer, flicks a bright look of excitement at Derek from his clever fox eyes. Eyes the color of the afternoon sun. Eyes the color of the sweetest honey in the smartest trap.   
“About you sucking my dick,” Derek says, and his manners clench in his gut. It’s fucking intoxicating.   
Stiles takes another step. His breath slides over Derek’s lips, and his hand hovers over Derek’s dick.  
“Don’t forget to warm up before and stretch after?” he says, and it takes Derek a moment to get that he’s still making jokes, still not pushing, or taking, just hovering there, within reach. Derek can feel the warmth of Stiles’ palm through the thin fabric of his shorts. He can smell sweat, and coconut sunscreen, a faint whiff of alcohol, mixed with the notes of peppermint gum. So he can’t really help it, he leans the last inch in, licks a beer bitter tongue into Stiles’ soda sweet mouth.


	3. The color white of kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am so happy right now," he whispers looking back at Derek's face for a moment; smiling like an angel, like holding Derek's dick brings him j o y.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at last, porn

Kissing Stiles is unlike kissing anyone else Derek has ever kissed before. When Derek grabs him, Stiles yields. It’s soft, but doesn’t feel like winning. Stiles yields, glides, molds around Derek like the ocean molds around a swimmer - perfectly sensuous, perfectly smooth - but without an ounce of submission. Stiles yields, because it pleases him to yield. He opens to Derek with a small, soft sigh; lets him in, then winds himself around Derek like a strangler vine. There’s an arm around Derek’s neck, a hand pulling him closer by the hip, and one of Stile’s calves is hooked around Derek’s. Stiles fucking kisses like he's not even human, like he's being held back by nothing, like he has no expectations, hasn't seen a single kiss scene in a single movie. He kisses like he's never been kissed, or like everyone in the world has kissed him. It’s the color white of kisses. Larger than the sum its parts.

Derek feels hints of teeth but only just, and Stiles’ tongue licks around in Derek’s mouth like he owns it. Like now, with this kiss, Derek has handed over the access codes to his entire being; signed over his body - skin, bones, balls and all. And maybe he has. Stiles slides his hand up from Derek’s hip, over the bare skin of his stomach, rubs fingers through the hair on his chest. Then both of his hands are on Derek’s skull, bracketing his face, fingers spread out wide. He rubs his pointer fingers over Derek’s brows, keeps his thumbs in the hinges of his jaw. He eats the small groans spilling out of Derek without pause. It’s a hungry kiss, but not intrusive. Not aggressive. There’s nothing banal, nothing imitable in Stiles’ hunger. It’s not a gesture, it’s a need. It makes Derek feel as if kissing him is the only thing Stiles has ever wanted, and while that can’t be true, Derek vaguely knows it’s not true, the tacit, visceral flattery of it drives Derek wild, until he’s mindlessly scratching and pawing at Stiles. The recognition that he’s fucked settles deeper in Derek, but once again, makes no difference. 

The only thing that slightly jostles the superhuman seamlessness of Stiles' kissing is when Derek pushes their dicks together. Because Stiles shudders then, helplessly, and moans into Derek's mouth. Derek can honestly say he's never been as grateful to have a big dick as he is now.  
He slides a: "sizequeen," between their mouths and Stiles laughs - a burst of breath exploding in Derek's face. Stiles leans back a bit, pokes his tongue into his own cheek and fucking winks. Traces the outline of Derek's dick through the basketball shorts and just let's Derek see it all - the blown out pupils, the stoned glaze of his eyes.  
"You have no idea," he whispers, sincerely.  
And Derek really doesn’t, because he’s never been looked at like that. Like he’s a reward, a compliment, a Christmas morning. It makes it impossible to remember that Stiles is trouble, and that what’s in his eyes is not a promise, can’t be a promise. It just narrows Derek’s world down to the glistening pink of Stiles mouth and the pulse throbbing in his own dick.

Stiles moves one of his hands off Derek’s face then, dances the fingertips down his neck, over his sternum; skips down his abs that twitch at every point of contact. He hooks his fingers into the band of Derek's shorts and pulls. They both look; heads bent, temples touching, staring down the planes of Derek's body, into his pants, at his dick.  
"Dude," Stiles' voice is reverent.  
Derek flexes, makes it jump. Stiles reaches in with his other hand, wraps his fingers around the girth.  
"I am so happy right now," he whispers looking back at Derek's face for a moment; smiling like an angel, like holding Derek's dick brings him j o y. He pulls at the shorts, snaps the band under Derek's balls and goes down on his knees before Derek can register movement, or appreciate the fact that Stiles is, really really, about to suck his dick.

There's strands of hair between Derek's fingers, gritty with sweat and sunscreen and a day’s worth of wind, but Stiles is rubbing his cheek against Derek's hard on. It's equal parts ridiculous and adorable, and the effect is dizzying.  
"You gonna suck it, or just play with it?" Derek manages through the dumbing soup of chemistry and pheromones that his brain had become.  
Stiles clucks his tongue, then opens his mouth around the head of Derek's dick, slowly feeds it in. A hot, wet slide that robs Derek of breath.

Derek tries to keep still as Stiles keeps going down, sucking Derek in deeper, his mouth stretched obscenely wide. He rubs Stiles' hair for something to do with his desperate hands that want to grab, pull, pull, pull.  
"C'mon," Stiles demands, pulling off for a moment and sinking right back down. He mumbles something else around Derek’s dick, it might be "I can take it," but Derek’s not sure, and he’s not taking any chances. He knows what he’s playing with here, he’s used to being gentle. In fact, being a considerate lover is a thing for him. A thing he does. Is. 

Oh fuck, fuck, it feels like Stiles’ mouth is everywhere, does he even breathe? Does he have a gag reflex?

Stiles let’s loose a petulant huff, grabs one of Derek’s wrists and kind of mashes Derek’s hand harder into his own skull. And Derek get’s it, ok? Harder please. He understands. It’s just that … it never happens. Literally. Never ever. People see Derek’s dick, and love it, and want it, but their eyes are always bigger than their … mouths. But Stiles has somehow, slowly, smoothly and without noticeable effort, without disruptions of breathing, or gagging, or swearing, fit most of Derek’s dick into his mouth. And probably throat. He lets spit dribble everywhere, slicking the way for his fist that he fits between his mouth and Derek’s groin. There, now Derek’s entire dick is in a tight, wet place. Surrounded by a snug, slick squeeze. 

Derek doesn’t know why he’s surprised that Stiles seems to be having very little trouble blowing him. He shouldn’t be surprised. And it sure as fuck shouldn’t be pushing his buttons like it is. It’s wonderful to be engulfed in Stiles’ mouth, because he can apparently unhinge his jaw like a fucking snake, go down deeper than most of Derek’s partners have ever managed. On his first try. There’s nothing irritating about it. Derek is grateful. Right? Right!

Except how Stiles’ finesse is a twist in Derek, it coils in his gut, makes his dick harder while he sees red. And Derek doesn’t do this ok? He’s a very caring lover. He figured out he was big early on, so he’s always been gentle, gentle. Careful. Careful. Hands delicate on people’s jaws, easy like carrying bird’s eggs, never pushing. But Stiles wants it, right? And can obviously take it? Because … 

… oh fucking fuck .. what the fuck is that?! 

Derek thunks the back of his head against the cabinets, because somehow all of the wetness around his dick pulses and flutters, and he can feel it in his toes. Stiles pulls off, but both of his fists are working Derek through the spit as he sinks lower and opens his mouth to Derek’s balls.  
“Come on,” he says again, a tiny rasp in the honey voice, and Derek put it there. With his big dick.  
So this is when something snaps like a rubber band, somehere in Derek. He grabs the back of Stiles skull, spins on his heel, steps them tight against the cabinets, caging Stiles in between his thighs and the wood paneling.  
“Open,” he says and Stiles opens. Opens wide below laughing eyes of someone getting what they want. And Derek fucks his dick in. All those little bows on those little things that good boys don’t do? That good men don’t do? Those bows his mother tied, with patient, loving hands - they come undone, and fall away. The only thing setting what he’s doing apart from that, which is completely savage, is Derek’s hand separating Stiles’ skull from the cabinet door, absorbing impact, holding the last shreds of his decency. 

Derek’s orgasm is sudden and dark, like a lightning storm. There’s no time to pull out, or warn Stiles, or do any of those things that civilized people do. He just gasps and comes down Stiles throat and it’s the best feeling ever, even with the bitter hints of fear that come from having crossed lines. Perhaps, because of those bitter notes. Stiles swallows, finally gags, which gratifies Derek more than he will ever admit, swallows again. Derek’s still more than a half hard and Stiles seems content to stay where he is, lazily nursing on Derek’s dick, rubbing his nose in Derek’s spit wet pubes. 

“Uh guys?”  
And shit. Shit fuck.  
Derek squeezes his eyes shut, even though he has his back to where Alison is presumably standing, staring at his bare ass.  
Allison clears her throat, but doesn’t fucking leave, why is she not leaving?!  
Stiles pushes Derek back a bit, lets Derek’s wet dick flop out of his mouth, and Derek covers his face with his hands.  
“Allie, can you give us a moment?” Stiles asks, mouth an inch from Dereks s t i l l n a k e d dick! He peers around Derek, presumably smiles at Allison.  
“We’re out of beers,” Allison says.  
“Okay?” Stiles replies, wipes his mouth on Derek’s hip.  
“You guys are kind of in front of the fridge,” Allison clarifies.  
“Oh,” Stiles says: “I’ll bring some out in a minute,” he happily offers.  
“Ok, thanks,” Allison replies just as cheerfully, and Derek hears her walk away.  
And what, in the everloving fuck, even was that.  
Stiles pushes at him a bit more, pulls his shorts up, lets the elastic band snap against Derek’s abs.  
“You heard the lady, big guy, you gotta let me up.”  
Derek keeps his hands in front of his face, but takes a ginger step back.  
“There we go,” Stiles says, stands with a groan, shakes his legs out.  
It takes Derek until Stiles has loaded a bunch of beers into his arms to realize that while he came -in his kitchen, in broad daylight, with company over, oh god, kill him now - then Stiles didn’t.  
“What about you?” he mumbles.  
“I guess you’ll owe me,” Stiles says with his raw, red, abused mouth, fucking winks again, and walks out of the kitchen.


	4. Boyfriend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shh, go back to sleep,” Stiles whispered, and Derek almost did, because his alarm hadn’t even gone off for the first time, and the light lacked saturation in that way-too-early, colors-haven’t-woken-yet way. But Stiles climbed into Derek’s bed like a cat - graceful moves but pokey contact points.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok ... so ... introducing an original female character, please don't kill me. the scenes playing in my head, the ones that wouldn't leave me alone, and that triggered this whole story kind of mandate one. and I tried thinking of making one of the existing girls stand in, but it just won't do.  
> love you for reading and commenting and stuff, thank you for self-care pornoing with me :D

It’s possible that Derek may have thought that Stiles blowing him will get Stiles out of Derek’s system. Like sneaking a cigarette from your mom’s stash at 13. Or immunize him against the fever that is Stiles. Like the measles vaccine. 

Ha.  
Ha-ha.  
Shit, yeah no … that didn’t happen. At all. 

Instead, what happened was that Stiles is now completely and unabashedly addicted to Derek’s dick. And while that may sound like it would put Derek in in control, make him the one with the power here, it does not. He continues to be in complete lack of control; so pathetically preoccupied with, and resolutely responsive to Stiles that even Scott, stoner-Scott, oblivious Scott, gave Derek a look. A weird one. Something akin to compassion. Possibly pity.

Stiles rolls through Derek’s days like a Pride parade - bright and loud and mesmerizing - and it feels like there’s very little for Derek to do but blink and follow. Blink and follow. And it’s not like Stiles objectifies his dick or anything. Well he does, but not in a way that makes Derek feel bad. No, it’s more like Stiles is d e l i g h t e d by Derek a n d his dick. So yeah, Stiles mostly just makes Derek feel good. He keeps up his usual stream of tailor-made, clever compliments, and looks at him with eyes that make Derek feel ridiculously wanted. He also now tries to stick his hand down Derek’s pants more often than not. Or Derek’s dick in his mouth. Or this morning, his own dick in Derek’s ass. 

“Shh, go back to sleep,” Stiles whispered, and Derek almost did, because his alarm hadn’t even gone off for the first time, and the light lacked saturation in that way-too-early, colors-haven’t-woken-yet way. But Stiles climbed into Derek’s bed like a cat - graceful moves but pokey contact points.  
“Whatime’s?” Derek asked into the tight, warm space between his own arm and the pillow.  
“Early, go back to sleep.” Stiles snuggled closer, sprinkled feather light touches on Derek’s shoulders, little stroking movements down his back.  
“I want to eat you out, and fuck you when you’re all soft and sleepy.”  
So no, Derek couldn’t go back to sleep, because of the loud whooshing sounds his blood started making, rushing to his dick. But he did turn himself all the way onto his belly, hide his arms under his pillow and his face into it; spread his legs. Because he was this guy now. The slutty, always willing one. He didn’t go back to sleep, but he tried to be as soft and pliant as he could, while Stiles first licked at him with an obscene, wet mouth and an insistent, rude tongue, thumbs digging into the meat of his glutes, where he was holding him open; then probed at his prostate with clever fingers, wringing a silky smooth orgasm into Derek’s sheets; and finally, when he nudged Derek’s thighs further apart and fucked him in long, smooth, perfectly timed strokes, fingers spread wide and pressed in hard on Derek’s hips. After, he rolled Derek off the wet patch, looked him over with eyes of warm, admiring amber; trailed his fingers down from Derek’s morning-scruffy face, over his similarly scruffy chest, lower to where his softening dick lay on his thigh in its own wet mess.  
“That was so good,” he whispered, half to Derek, half to Derek’s dick. And it was such a simple thing to say. A cliché almost. It should have been devoid of all meaning, but instead it was brimming with it. It made Derek’s dick twitch in dumb gratitude, and the rest of Derek stretch and unfurl in that sunbeam of praise. Stiles swirled his fingers in the now-sticky cum, lowered his face to lave little kitten licks up and down Derek’s length. 

So yes, Stiles mostly makes Derek feel really good. 

And then, sometimes, Derek feels jealous, and kind of insane. Mostly, when Stiles wanders around the house, hand down his own pants, on the phone with his baby for hours on end, or when he leaves the house wearing tight jeans and tight t-shirts, and on a couple of memorable occasions, eyeliner, but doesn’t say where he’s going or when he’ll be back. And Derek doesn’t ask, because he’s not Stiles’ keeper. And he doesn’t want to be! He does not. But he feels a little wild, and a little angry, and a little like tearing something apart, or punching something. For the sake of fairness, it might be that while Stiles makes Derek feel wanted, then it is not Stiles, who makes Derek feel jealous. That Derek manages that on his own. Because he’s proprietary or something. And jealously is a toxic emotion? It only sounds like truth to Derek about half of the time. Derek’s only taken one human sexuality class, ok? He’s a sciences guy, what do you want from him? So when Stiles leaves, or when he spends too long on the phone, Derek plugs in his earphones, listens to pulsing music on loud, runs stats for Deaton, or leaves the house to hit the gym. And Derek’s always done that. That’s his life. So everything is fine. Totally fine. Even if Derek’s life is weaved of clashing colors right now - unusually wide swaths of brights, for the ample orgasms, and for the way Stiles smiles at him; but many more deep reds and greens as well; spikes of dark things, things that Derek wasn’t really raised to feel. He was raised to braid his days out of pastels and earth tones. Not this cacophony of everything. Most days it still feels like he’s going too fast towards things he knows too little of, but he’s gotten somewhat desensitized to the rollercoaster ride that is Stiles, so he feels like the destination is doom less often. Almost never. Except when he does, and he knows, with absolute certainty, that he is utterly fucked, and this will, at best, end in tears. 

So naturally, when Stiles emerges from his room after a particularly long phone conversation, knocks on Derek’s open door, leans his hip against the jamb and says: “Daisy’s coming to visit over the weekend, will you be here?” Derek’s guard is down. He’s immersed in his data, and none of the alarms go off in his head.  
Derek slowly turns away from his desk and towards Stiles. Who looks happy and hopeful. Then again he mostly looks happy and hopeful. Or happy and delighted. Or happy and curious. Or occasionally happy and kind of sinister, which would be a feat on anyone, but oddly makes sense on Stiles’ face.  
“Who’s Daisy?” Derek asks, kind of preoccupied with the way his latest measurements don't make any sense in the context of the previous ones, or in light of their predictions.  
“My girlfriend,” Stiles says.  
“Your girlfriend,” Derek repeats. Because that doesn’t make sense. It’s like the words are floating around them and they don’t really go together. Don’t string, or stick, or click.  
“Um,” Derek says: “do you also have a boyfriend?”  
Stiles sucks his cheeks in for a moment, smiles with soft eyes but sharp teeth: “well I have you,” he says, gesturing at Derek in an all encompassing way.  
And while that gesture should trigger Derek’s flight mode, or at least make him pause - because Stiles really does fucking have him, huh, all of him, in just the way that flick of the wrist indicated - he flushes instead, all fuzzy with being wanted, and smiles back like a child.  
“So,” Stiles says, raises his brows.  
“Uh, what?” Derek asks.  
“Are you around this weekend to meet Daisy?”  
“Daisy, your girlfriend, who you talk on the phone to,” Derek slowly assembles observations and interpretations. Stiles nods.  
“Whom you call baby or sometimes D,” Derek finishes.  
Stiles nods again, patient but kind of wearing a ‘d-uh’ expression.  
D-uh indeed. Stiles has a g i r l f r i e n d. One called Daisy nonetheless. One Stiles spends hours on the phone with and calls baby. One, who knows about Derek’s dick.  
Derek suppresses the urge to massage his temples.  
“Have to check with Deaton,” he says: “might have fieldwork.”  
“Well can you see if you can get out of it?” Stiles asks, looking happy and hopeful again.  
“Sure,” Derek says. He has 4 days to find a way to be able to meet Stiles’ Daisy. Or beg Deaton to take him along to whatever mud pit he’s sure to be heading to this weekend.


	5. Interesting slime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Derek finally decides that fuck it, fuck everything. Yes! He wants to meet Stiles’ Daisy! Because how could he not? She’s Stiles’. Meeting her is another way to know him, maybe unravel a corner of that thick felt of mystery Stiles has cocooned himself in by blending a thousand gossamer veils he uses to hide, or obscure, or only partially reveal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me a while to post, life is annoying like that sometimes. Thank you for reading and your kudos and comments, they make me ridiculously happy :)   
> Also there's sexting.

Derek ends up thinking about it a lot. Much more than he planned. He expected to just know deep down in his gut that he can’t, doesn’t want to, doesn’t know how to meet Stiles’ Daisy. He can usually rely on his gut. It’s a reliable gut - a Hale trait, according to his mom. He was recovering from his less than stellar teenage choices, not yet aware of it, when she said: “trust your gut, honey. Deep down you know when things are wrong, you just need to listen, you weren’t listening.” And he’s been listening ever since. But now his gut stays mum. His initial frightened rejection dissipates in about 40 minutes, and all kinds of other things sneak in. Some of those are easy to map – there’s curiosity, some sort of mildly freaked out excitement that clenches right where he expected the clean, simple rejection of the whole idea to sit. Others are harder to name; there is something that blends jealousy with want – red hot and dangerous like that first frenzied blowjob in the kitchen. And something else that seems to – impossibly - merge pettiness with magnanimity.

It’s a mess. 

There’s also a lot of pondering over why Stiles even wants Derek and Daisy to meet, and what, if anything, that means. He could go and ask Stiles, but he doesn’t.

Stiles, of course, doesn’t push. He says once, that Daisy is “also super excited,” but that’s it. Otherwise he meanders in Derek’s peripheral vision - coming or going, or talking on the phone - maddeningly desirable with his knowing honey eyes and his knowing sugar smirks, and the way he lets both of those linger on Derek, loaded with intent. The way he cups Derek’s junk through his jeans, when Derek leans in to kiss him, as if Derek’s junk was a precious, sentient creature. 

So Derek finally decides that fuck it, fuck everything. Yes! He wants to meet Stiles’ Daisy! Because how could he not? She’s Stiles’. Meeting her is another way to know him, maybe unravel a corner of that thick felt of mystery Stiles has cocooned himself in by blending a thousand gossamer veils he uses to hide, or obscure, or only partially reveal. Meeting her is also something Stiles really seems to want. And that … matters. And, well, finally - the idea of meeting her makes that void of a good choice clench in Derek’s gut, weigh heavy in his balls; lights his skin up, and clicks on his tongue with the sour pucker of badwrong. So he wants. He wants. He wants. He’s not sure what, but he feels pulled by the current that is Stiles’ shamelessness. 

So naturally, just as Derek has decided all of this, made these choices - Deaton calls. There’s no urgency in his placid voice, but no two ways about the fact that he expects Derek to pull a long weekend on the field site. Apparently his PhD students are both leaving for some kind of a conference so it’s on Derek, a lowly RA, to carry all the weight. He needs to leave Thursday night, which doesn’t mean missing any classes, as Friday is his lab day anyway, but he won’t even get a glimpse of Daisy, who’s not scheduled to arrive before Friday lunch. 

“That sucks, man.” Stiles says, long fingers drumming on the kitchen table, eyes squinted for a brief moment of shrewd processing as they scan Derek’s face.  
“Yeah,” Derek agrees, sincerely.  
Stiles sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose. His fingertips go back to tap-tap-tapping on the tabletop; a jittery dance, no discernible rhythm. Then they stop, lift. Stiles stands, finds one of his manic, shrapnel sharp smiles. It makes Derek want to shield his eyes. Stiles tosses a: “make sure to send us a pic of some interesting slime,” and walks out of the kitchen with too much bounce in his step and too much stride in his long legs. Derek is left with a tiny touch of Stiles’ fingers on his collarbone, and a mouth full of conflicted thoughts. Possibly feelings. But Derek likes to call them thoughts. They appear more manageable this way. Kind of like those hypothetical objects in your side mirror.

So Derek leaves on Thursday afternoon, head full of Stiles. He thinks of long fingers and long legs when he drives. He thinks of strong thighs and arms that wrap around him like lianas, when he loads boxes at the lab. When he unloads the boxes at the field site, he thinks of the palette of smiles he’s been given – from the cool, too-bright ones he doesn’t really like, to the tiny and warm ones he collects for keeps; to the blinding, crooked ones that simultaneously make him want to run towards Stiles and away. He thinks of what Stiles might be doing right this minute as he wrestles with his waders, stench of sun-warm rubber and old mud strong in his nose. He thinks of Stiles’ hot skin growing damp and desperate under his fingers, and the solid feel of his ass pushing back into Derek’s hard-on, as he tries to will it away on the narrow cot of the RV. Bizarrely, when he wakes up the next morning, hard-on still there, greeting him like a sentinel of disappointment, he also starts thinking of Daisy. He’s never seen Daisy, doesn’t know why he never asked Stiles for a picture; he would have shown Derek, no doubt about it. Probably has a camera roll full of them. But Derek never asked, and Stiles never offered, and now Derek’s mind is stuck imagining what she’d be like. Tall, like Stiles? Yeah … tall and lean, long hair like the wind, fingers like shadows the birch tree leaves on the pavement in front of their house. But, maybe not. Maybe they’re not a matching set, but a complimenting one? Maybe she’s what he’s not? Maybe she’s curvaceous; ample and soft, where Stiles is tight and lean?

“Mr. Hale, do you mind?” Deaton says, because Derek’s gotten lost in the monotonicity of the task, and the steady ache of the daydream.   
“Sorry, sorry,” Derek apologizes, takes the samples from Deaton, runs them back to their makeshift lab to start the first cycle.   
The weather is still unseasonably warm, which Derek is thankful for - being knee deep in a muddy swamp would suck if it wasn’t, but it also means that half encased in rubber as he is, he’s sweating like a pig. By the early afternoon, he can’t take it anymore, and peels off his shirts. Deaton, of course, hasn’t broken a single bead of sweat, and the man is wearing one of those ridiculous khaki builder vests underneath his wader suspenders, the kind with all the pockets. Deaton passes him a bug repellant with what might, on someone else, be called a smile.   
“I don’t recommend using the one you brought on bare skin,” he says.   
Which is nice of him, but makes Derek feel naked, and blush. So now he’s a blushing semi-naked moron in muddy waders in the middle of nowhere trying to figure out what the girlfriend of the man he’s fucking looks like. Actually, the man he’s not fucking. Hasn’t fucked yet? The man, who has fucked him, and regularly sucks the universe out of his dick. Yep, that’s about right. Jesus fuck, someone needs to hit Derek in the head. Maybe Deaton would. He probably would, if Derek made a compelling argument backed up with both data and extant literature, preferably accompanied by a visualization in the form of a graph. Derek sighs and sprays himself with the vile smelling repellant that Deaton seems to think won’t take his skin off.  
Deaton stares at him for a moment, an alarming amount of attention focused on Derek, but says: “ah!” then, and: “I think I know where we need to go,” and starts wading towards what looks like a thicket of very scratchy branches just at the height of Derek’s now bare chest. 

So Derek is ridiculously scratched up, dirty, mosquito-bitten, sweaty, and so, so incredibly tired by the time they get back. He just sits, numbly - waders and all - in the shitty folding chair, and watches the sun sink behind the treetop-studded horizon. This is kind of why he chose ecology. The forest around him is fragrant and noisily alive, while his mind is quiet. Deaton is supremely pleased with their day, so much so, that he opens two beers, and offers one to Derek. So this is what Derek blames that next fucking idea on. The balmy beerbuzz in a tired, hungry, dehydrated body, and a quiet mind. He’s pulling empty vials from his pockets and one of them is covered with what totally passes for ‘slime.’ He holds it up, snaps a selfie of his smiling, tired face, the slime, and a slice of his sweaty torso, criss-crossed with stupid elastic suspenders, captions it with ‘interesting slime’ and sends it to Stiles. 

His ribcage contracts and his blood heats for a moment, but he doesn’t even get the full brunt of anxiety, before his phone makes that glassy incoming snap clink.

He almost drops his phone. Then almost drops it again. Presses the screen against his sticky chest and fumbles his way into the RV. There’s no way he’s using his remaining 10-second-look in front of Deaton. He leans against the door and rubs his thumb over the screen, holding his breath. The snap comes to alive, and there it is, holy fuck, motherfucking jesus, what the hell is he supposed to do with this!? Because there, on his screen is Stiles’ long, pale dick; fully hard, with a set of spindly fingers gripping it at the base, chipping nail-polish - candy pink on one visible nail, teal on the other. And a pearly string of spit and pre-cum connects the pink plump head of Stiles dick to an equally plump and pink lower lip of a girl. Daisy. On the top the stripe of text reads “same.”


	6. He said we have to ask nicely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Derek, this is Daisy, but she likes to be called Baby when her pussy’s wet, don’t you Baby?” Stiles says from the couch; looks at Derek with flickering fox eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone, meet Daisy. Daisy, this is everyone, please play nice with them, I really like them.
> 
> Sorry it's taken me a bit, I am FINALLY on a vacay. So some of this is edited on my phone, I hope nothing majorly sucks. Love you for reading and feeding the muse cookies, comments and attention.

Derek fights it, but swiftly loses; takes a screencap that he knows the app will notify Stiles of. Perhaps it’s good that it will. He doesn't know what to say anyway.

“All you have to do is ask ;)” Stiles messages. Derek doesn’t know what that means either, but his dick reads it as a promise, revels in the sticky sweet anticipation of its own making. Derek has to work really hard to calm the fuck down enough to go back out, and start pulling together a crappy field site dinner with Deaton. No boners around Deaton. He sends Stiles a smiling blushing emoji. Stiles doesn’t send anything back.

Derek keeps wanting to send another picture as the weekend progresses, but doesn’t. For one, Stiles is with Daisy and Derek doesn't want it to seem like he's encroaching on their time. And secondly, he’s covered in dirt, sweat, both mosquito repellant and mosquitoes most of the time, or sleeping like a dead man for the rest. He does have these little pangs of … something. In the mornings, when his slowly rousing mind reaches for Stiles, and comes back with an image of him sleeping, wound tightly around a faceless girl.

So when Derek gets back into town on Sunday afternoon, still in the jeans he’s been wearing underneath his waders for three days, he yells a directionless “hey!” into the house, because he expects it to be empty. He expects Daisy to have left, or be in the process of leaving, and Stiles to be in that process along her. He lets his bags fall to the floor with a careless thump, and the door slam shut behind him.

“In the living room!” he hears Stiles yell back. And that same sticky sweet excitement from before swirls in his blood. It’s there in his body, noticeable, but vague. He toes out of his old sneakers and walks towards Stiles’ voice.

The first thing he sees - after he enters the living room and walks the couple of steps that put the couch in his line of vision - are the somewhat dirty soles of really small white-stockinged feet. Correction, knee-high socks, not stockings. And seriously, what is that, size 5? The second thing he sees is Stiles’ dick, the head of it emerging and disappearing as he rubs his own fist up and down the shaft. The third thing he sees is a patch of wetness on a crotch of white cotton undies, covering a smallish but distinctively girly ass. Only then does his brain somehow turn these fragments into a whole picture. Stiles is sitting on the couch, t-shirt on but no pants. Well, there’s a pretzel of jeans around one of his ankles. His legs are spread, one foot planted on the floor, the heel of the other on the edge of the couch, and a girl … Daisy, assumedly, is on her knees on the floor licking his balls, or eating him out or doing whatever, being really fucking turned on by it. Derek feels like he is maybe going to have an aneurysm right now, right … about … now …. because his vision sort of blurs a bit, and there’s a rushing in his ears.

“Uh,” he says.

“Hey Derek,” Stiles says with a soft almost-sigh. His fist slows a bit, reluctantly, then slows some more. He sort of rests his hand on his own stomach, still-hard dick in a loose clutch; puts the fingers of his other hand on Daisy’s forehead and pushes gently, says: “baby you have to stop for a moment.”

Then he smiles at Derek like Derek is the fucking sun.

Derek is, for some reason, thinking about how long the ‘moment’ lasts that Daisy has to stop for. He apparently no longer has any control over what he thinks.

Daisy sits back on her heels and there are dimples in her lower back, right above her firm little butt. Derek fixates on them. Wonders if Stiles pushes his thumbs into those two divots, when he fucks her. Her skin is pale, almost of translucent, and glows vaguely pink here an there. Where Stiles’ fingers have been, Derek guesses. Or his mouth. Or the scrape of his fairly smooth chin. Her elbows are rubbed pink, her hair is messy and of a nondescript light color. 

“Hey,” Derek offers, lamely. Watches the muscles bunch and flex under Daisy’s fairytale-creature skin as she prepares to stand and turn to face Derek. He wants her to. He doesn’t want her to. She turns around - it all becomes real. She gains a face - she’s no longer a dream. No longer Derek’s dream about Stiles, but a person. His eyes helplessly crawl from her body to Stiles' face, where he finds the honey-eyes firmly trained on his own face. Derek can't even guess what he sees.

And then Daisy turns, and it’s a surprise, but also not. Based on her back, Derek was expecting her boobs to be small, but they look like they’d be a perfect fit in his palms. Derek’s, not Stiles’. Stiles’ fingers are too long. Her pink nipples point up in a slope identical to that of Stiles nose, though. Derek can see a dark vein glow cobalt on her hip, clearly visible through her skin - fragile, but indestructible.

But her face? Derek would have never imagined Daisy to look like this, although now, after the first glimpse, it seems obvious that this is her face, and there's no way Stiles' Daisy'd look any other way. Derek supposes it’s always like that with faces; they’re unimaginable, until they’re claimed, and then they become truths. Daisy has a narrow, small nose and mouth the exact same flushed pink that her nipples and her raw elbows are. It’s full and somewhat hesitant about its own boundaries; like a peony bloom, a bruise, an aquarelle. Delicate, but sharp chin and cheekbones - counterpoints to a heart-shaped face. And above all that, like a fucking bow on a present - a pair of ridiculously large, pale, gray-blue eyes. The kind that make you think of first frost knitting itself onto bare tree branches, or ice flowers blooming on windows. The kind that make you think of burning cold air and the smell of snow. Her and Stiles are not a matching set, like Derek imagined. They are a complimentary one, but not like Derek imagined either. Daisy doesn’t bring the rolling soft flesh to counteract Stiles’ lean lines. No … Daisy brings the water’s caress, where Stiles is a licking flame, the coolness of the wind, where Stiles is the sweltering stillness of a sweaty night. Together, they’re a fucking force of nature. Derek combs fingers through his hair, lost. There are pine needles and bits of twig in there; probably some dead mosquitoes.

“Derek, this is Daisy, but she likes to be called Baby when her pussy’s wet, don’t you Baby?” Stiles says from the couch; looks at Derek with flickering fox eyes.

“Yes, daddy” Daisy says, and smirks right at Derek.

And Derek’s already barely functioning brain just stops processing altogether. It stutters and hiccups and probably breaks. Because this girl - with her snowflake eyes and her bloodstain mouth, her stupidly celestial skin - is even dirtier, and even more shameless than Stiles, which Derek would not have considered possible even a week ago. And Stiles - with his long limbs, and his wet dick, and his twinkling honey eyes – Stiles, who is the least fatherly figure Derek has ever seen in his life, somehow clicks into place in this game of theirs. Later, when Derek will look back at this, maybe when he’s old and gray, or maybe very soon, when this has all inevitably gone to shit, and ended in crocodile tears, he will know, that this … this is the moment that Stiles finally and completely corrupted Derek. He paved the way with his sinuous body, his multihued smiles, his compliments and his deep throat, but its this obscene little girl with her wide eyes, and the way she’s Stiles’ to wield, like a sword, like a magic wand, that delivers the final blow to Derek’s moral character. The last vestiges of his rights and wrongs crumble, his sense of propriety and shame dissolve; leaving a sore, dull ache, like an inflamed gum, where a bad tooth’s been pulled out. Everything succumbs, and Derek feels like he’s standing naked in a cloud of dust left of what used to scaffold his entire being.

He takes a stupid little step forward. Then a larger one back.

 

Daisy takes a matching step towards him. She wipes her Stiles-wet mouth on her bare shoulder - the carelessness of the move contradicting the way it makes her breast jiggle, the pink of her nipple bouncing in Derek’s line of attention. And then she turns her smirk into a full-on smile. The dimples in her cheeks match those in her back, but her teeth are too small, which makes her look less like a water-nymph or a creature, and more like a cute, but perfectly human, perfectly ordinary girl. She smiles at Derek like she’s not half naked; like her face, and now her shoulder isn’t smeared with spit and precum; like Derek is not a stranger who knows what her boyfriend’s body tastes like.

“I missed you,” Stiles says from the couch. Daisy nods. Absentmindedly scratches her bare belly, where pink lines light up as her nails dig in.

“Where’s Scott?” Derek asks for some reason. For no reason. For the reason of his broken brain. But also because he probably can’t take any more surprises today, so Scott better not be a part of this.

“He’s staying with Allison for a couple of days,” Daisy says. Her voice matches her everything. That’s the only descriptor Derek can come up with. It’s almost, but not quite sweet, filled with air and whispers and softness that doesn’t feel warm.

“We told him we’d be fucking,” Daisy adds: “so he didn’t want to stick around.”

“Oh,” Derek says, trying to decide if this is them telling him he shouldn’t stick around either. It doesn’t feel like that.

“We told him we’d be fucking you,” Stiles says, still cradling his dick, but otherwise perfectly relaxed. He’s spread one of his arms out on the back of the couch.

“What did he?” Derek swallows too much spit and coughs like a moron: “what did he say?”

“Said we have to ask nicely,” Daisy singsongs, rolls back and forth on the balls of her feet.  
“He said you’re not that kind, and I need to let you say ‘no’.” Stiles says and Derek sees a flash of something in his eyes for the briefest of moments.  
“Do you need to say ‘no’, Derek?” Daisy asks. His name on her tongue makes the sweetness of the badwrong that wanting Stiles brews in Derek’s brain slosh and thicken.

“Or do you need to watch for a bit to make sure?” Daisy’s words could so easily be sarcastic, or mocking, or humiliating. But they aren’t. She’s just inquiring. Walking back towards Stiles, slipping a look over her shoulder. “Do you want to watch us a little?” she asks again. 

“I need to take a shower,” Derek says. Again, without really wanting to, or knowing why. Well, he does. Need to take a shower. And he knows why. But again with the timing and the lack of context, or any kind of connective sentences. Stiles AND Daisy are even worse for his cognitive function than Stiles alone.

Daisy stops, and tilts her head. Looks confused and like she want to ask something, but Stiles starts laughing and it fills the air, climbs up Derek’s nose like bubbles from champagne.

“I’m really dirty,” Derek helplessly explains, and sees the corners of Daisy’s lips pull up.

Stiles gets up too now, walks out of his jeans and over to Daisy, warps both arms around her shoulders from the back, probably nests the base of his dick on top if her butt. He walks them a couple of steps closer to Derek, nearly putting Daisy into his personal space. Nearly, but not quite. This is still Stiles not pushing. Trying to give Derek a chance to say ‘no.’

“We could help?” he offers.


	7. Burnt sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy’s already sky wide eyes go wider for a moment, until she slowly blinks, shrugs one fragile shoulder and bites her bottom lip, right where the puffy spot is. Derek feels Stiles’ dick twitch against him the exact same moment his own does. A stereo reaction to what is, after all, a purposeful cliché. Maybe. Probably? God, their games are doing his head in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg dudes, did you see the 6b trailer?! *squeals*
> 
> also this is slo mo, dirty af shower porn

“Okay,” Derek says, because he wants to, and because all the reasons for why the fuck not to just fell apart and became dust.   
Stiles tilts his head like a suspicious dog - keeps a careful eye on him, assessing, measuring. Deciding if he can be taken at his word. It irritates a tiny, new part of Derek. He’s a big boy. He knows when he’s made up his mind. So he pulls his sweaty t-shirt over his head, drops it on the floor as he turns on his heel and starts walking towards the bathroom. There’s no delay in the footfalls following him. 

Stiles pulls off his own shirt, and now the only one naked, fiddles with the taps, while Daisy sits on the toilet lid, legs crossed, hands in her lap, and watches the unfolding scene with her huge quicksilver eyes. Stiles tries to hide it behind getting the water just right, but he’s watching Derek too. So many intense eyes on him, Derek doesn’t really know what to do with that, so he pops the button on his jeans, unzips with a no-nonsense move, and pushes them down his hips along with his boxers. His dick smacks into his thigh; not hard yet, not even half chub, but weighty with anticipation. Stiles’ eyes follow its swing and he grins - a lopsided, overly warm smile, a dirty secret shared under covers, hot fudge over vanilla sundae – and it feels like it’s melting Derek’s insides.   
“C’mere,” Stiles husks, backing up a step until he’s under the spray. His voice is like that smile, drippy warm and sugar sweet. When Derek moves, the smile stretches until it’s even on both sides, lit with joy and pure want. Derek stands in front of him, directly under the spray, lets it beat on his skin and soak into his hair, pour down in thick rivulets over his temples and his face. It feels good. It feels even better, when Stiles puts his hands on Derek, digs fingertips into the flesh of his sides, turns him by the hips, until they’re Stiles’ chest to Derek’s back.   
“Let’s get you clean then,” Stiles says; voice soft, almost dreamlike. Derek hears a snick of a bottle cap; feels Stiles’ long fingers in his hair a moment later. He groans in pleasure and relief, and lets Stiles move his head to rest on his shoulder, out of the stream.  
“Does that feel good?” Stiles murmurs and Derek hums in assent. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Daisy says. It would be sudden if not for the fact that her voice is too full of breath to ever seem sudden, and the fact that somewhere in his blood and guts, Derek never forgot she was here. Derek blinks his eyes open. She’s still perched on the toilet lid, white socks and panties and all, watching him. The steam has made her hair curl up around her face, amping up the celestial and the otherworldly.  
“Isn’t he? Isn’t he ridiculously fucking gorgeous?” Stiles says really close to his ear. The praise crosses the minuscule distance from Stiles’ lips to Derek’s brain, slithers in, nests. Nests. Nests. Derek tries not to puff up, not to preen, but his dick is now definitely chubbing up. Daisy’s eyes flow with water - over his face, drip off his chin, slide over his pecks and his abs, catch on his dick.   
“And really big,” she says - half awe - half hesitance - “really big everywhere.”  
Stiles stops massaging Derek’s scalp and moves him back into the spray to rinse the shampoo out.   
“Here, done with the hair,” he says. Then: “come help Baby.”  
More blood rushes to Derek’s dick, as he watches Daisy wiggle out of her panties. She’s shaved bare and what he can see of her pussy looks as pink and fucked out as her mouth and her elbows. She then peels off her white socks, one by one, and Derek sees that her knees match the other pink highlights on her body. He idly wonders what Stiles has been doing with her. To her? There’s a sick, sweet, burnt sugar twist to thinking of it that way. He’s more than a half hard before anyone’s really touched any other part of him than his hair, and he can feel Stiles in a similar condition against the left cheek of his ass.  
“So pretty,” Daisy says squirting body wash into her palm, rubbing her hands together, then sliding them down over Derek’s shoulders and back up to his chest. She’s close enough for Derek to see her eyelashes now; each pale hair of her eyebrows; smell the faint orange peel and peppermint scent on her. She rubs her soapy hands into his pits. There’s a puffy spot on her lower lip, not exactly a split but a sign of impact. It shimmers around Derek, like heat - that he likes it, that he likes the little patches on her that have been scraped raw.   
“And so fucking big,” Daisy adds, dreamily, rubbing circles on his pecks.   
“Are you a closet size queen, Baby?” Stiles teases from over his shoulder.   
Daisy’s already sky wide eyes go wider for a moment, until she slowly blinks, shrugs one fragile shoulder and bites her bottom lip, right where the puffy spot is. Derek feels Stiles’ dick twitch against him the exact same moment his own does. A stereo reaction to what is, after all, a purposeful cliché. Maybe. Probably? God, their games are doing his head in.   
Daisy smirks and for a sliver of a moment she looks like a villain just short a mustache; not someone’s baby, rubbed pink with use.   
Stiles clicks his tongue in Derek’s ear and Daisy’s smirk folds into a tiny smile. Her soapy hands have been roaming and circling and are almost framing Derek’s dick now.   
“Can I?” she says, flicking her eyes up to look at Derek and then down again to where her hands are.   
And from his bare new world, from the phoenix ashes of his shame, Derek says: “I don’t know, can you? I think you have to ask your daddy.”  
The effect is instantaneous and for the first time in about two months, Derek feels powerful. Stiles inhales in a sharp almost-gasp, jabs him with what’s become a full hard-on in a matter of seconds, and sinks a toothy smile into Derek’s neck. But Daisy? Her eyes are light enough for Derek to actually see her pupils blow out, drowning parts of snowflake with deep black. Her lips part, and Derek can see a flick of tongue. He basks. There is no other word for describing what it feels like. He basks in this ability to push their buttons like they’ve been pushing his. It doesn’t take long for Daisy to find her footing though. Close her moth, look at Derek with blunt, heavy lidded eyes; then slowly, deliberately transfer that same gaze to Stiles, say: “daddy, may I?” with ease so practiced it punches Derek in the gut, makes his dick fully hard with the echo of what used to be his sense of badwrong.  
“Ok, baby,” Stiles says, magnanimous; moving his own hands back down to Derek’s hips, holding him still, sliding his boner in Derek’s soap slippery crack.  
Daisy reaches out for more body wash, foams it up then puts her hands back where they were. They’re really small hands, Derek notices, as they glide down and in, wrapping around his dick, sliding up and down a couple of times then folding around his balls, massaging; moving back up to his shaft. It’s slippery and hot and perfectly firm and Derek wants to just wrap his own hand around her two small fists, fuck into that tight little cavern, egged on by those fucking eyes and Stiles fucking honeytongue, whispering in his ear. But Stiles digs his fingers in, and holds him still. Water sluices off the suds and all three of them are left staring at Daisy’s small pale hands on Derek’s dick. Which now, by contrast, looks obscene. It looks like a brute instrument of force and power, and Derek has never noticed this before. But he guesses Stiles may have, because he pokes Derek hard; an involuntary hitch of his hips; and whispers a: “holy fuck,” too smeared out to be in any way controlled.  
Daisy too, sounds far away and muted, when she whispers a: “I can’t make a circle with one hand,” into the steady thrum of falling water. She gracefully squats, stares at her fingers on Derek’s dick.   
Stiles groans a repeat: “fuck” into Derek’s hair.  
“Daddy, my fingers don’t touch, his cock is so big that my fingers don’t touch, I need both hands.” There’s glee in that voice now. Desire similar to the one Stiles wants him with. Pure, bright white. A bushfire of want. The fact that she says “cock” when Stiles and Derek only ever say “dick,” stirs the sticky sweetness already filling Derek to the brim. Derek looks down at her, at the pink smear of a mouth; at the blue-gray eyes, water droplets like jewels on lashes; at the small hands clutching his dick and he wants to push push push, take, take, break. 

And what?   
Is this even? 

Stiles is breathing into his ear – wet and heavy, sliding one of his own hands around, circling his fingers around the base of Derek’s dick, clamping down, hissing: “look at you,” into Derek’s ear: “good boys are always the dirtiest,” and Derek’s eyes roll back in his head, because why the fuck is this so good? 

Daisy fits her soft mouth over the head of his dick, looks up at both of them, so clearly both of them, and the though of her looking up at Stiles with Derek’s dick in her mouth is enough for Derek to be ready to paint her face with cum, and he would, if it weren’t for the clever, harsh ring of Stiles’ fingers around the base. She doesn’t swallow his dick, or push herself down on it. No, it’s something else, something absurdly soft, cool even, compared to the heat of the water. It’s like sinking into something thicker than water, something soft, soft, soft, but wet. It’s like fucking slime. And it sounds gross, but it feels fucking divine, and maybe this is where Stiles’ preoccupation with interesting slime comes from.  
“Oh my god,” Derek says. Reaches his hand out to push some wet strands of hair out of Daisy’s eyes, and his hand looks as brutish and dark next to her face as his dick looked in her hands. Tanned dark, coarse hairs, broad palms, wide fingernails.  
Stiles must notice it too, because he presses a desperate noise into Derek’s wet skin. He seems to get off on the contrast even more that Derek does.  
Daisy’s got a couple of inches of Derek’s dick in her mouth now, lips stretched, and Stiles lets go of Derek’s hip, reaches out to where Derek’s fingers are still stroking back Daisy’s wet hair, guides his fingers to grab a fistful at the back.  
“You have to help,” he murmurs rubbing his nose up and down the side of Derek’s face: “or she’s not gonna fit much more in there.”  
“S’okay,” Derek manages. Because really. He’s good here. A okay. Excellent. 11/10 stars, would recommend. Stiles just needs to release his fingers and they’re golden.   
“No, you need to help,” Stiles insists: “she likes it when you help.” He uses the leverage he has on Derek’s hand clutching Daisy’s hair, and the fact that he can just fuck Derek’s hips forward by moving his own, to fuck Daisy’s mouth with Derek’s dick. It feels as insane as it sounds.  
Derek’s eyes roll back again.


	8. Heartburn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No,” he says, laying a careful hand on her hip, rubbing his thumb on the bone. It’s weird and warm, and a little breathless to feel so unsure if he’s allowed to, after having come on her. But he loves how small and pale she looks in his hands. Breakable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the porn continues, I hope it's not too much porn. can there be too much porn? there probably can. 
> 
> As always, I love love love you for reading and leaving notes and comments. 
> 
> I also have a question. This could be done in about 2 chapters (which was the initial plan, we'll then be done with the scenes that kept playing in my head and started this whole thing). But, as always, the characters have grown into people not's just interacting sext bits, so I kind of also have a plan for like ... more. idk.

So Derek helps. He pulls Daisy’s skull - so fragile under the broad span of his fingers - down on his dick, while Stiles fucks their hips forward. Again, and again. Derek’s blind, deaf and mute with it - with the good good good, the more more more. Stiles finally stops clamping down his fingers; slides them to Derek’s ass, grabs a handful of flesh, then skates soapy fingertips across his hole; light touch, barely there, but lighting all of those nerve endings on fire.  
Derek groans into the whoosh of the water, feels like his face is melting off with pleasure. Gets ready to come his brains out, when Stiles licks the side of his face, the shell of his ear, whispers: “you’re so good for us,” in his ear. It’s a jolt that stays inside his skull. Vibrates in its echo chamber.  
“I’m gonna come,” he says to no one in particular. Because he is. And he feel she should warn her.

Him?  
Them?  
Someone?  
Help?

He lets go of Daisy, who pulls back a little, but not off; the fat head of his dick still within that plush pink cloud that is her mouth. She looks at him with eyes full of shower water and probably tears from having too much dick in her mouth and throat. No one gives him any more instruction, and he notices. It’s bizarre that he notices; bizarre, and that same brand of cloying, dangerous, burnt sweet he’s come to associate with Stiles. But Stiles’ fingers are still there, playing with his asshole, and Daisy reaches both of her pale little hands to circle his dick, jerk him a couple of times, until he just comes - with a soft, helpless, torn up sound – into her mouth. He’s coming, when Daisy opens wider, doesn’t pull off, but lets the come dribble out around his pulsing dick, down her chest. It’s gross and hot, and Derek makes a noise again, overlaid by Stiles mumbling a: “fuck yes,” behind him.  
He’s come dumb and out of it, when Stiles wraps a long, strong arm around his middle and reaches his other out to help Daisy to her feet. She steps closer, into the spray, tries to rub the come that’s gone stringy with water off her chest. 

“Sorry,” Derek says when he’s regained about a tenth of his mental capacities.  
“Why?” Daisy asks with puffy, red lips. With a fucked out voice. Derek did that. He feels the same dark flush of glee he felt when he first fucked Stiles’ mouth. He did that. With his big dick. Fuck yeah.  
“Daisy likes it, when you come in her mouth,” Stiles says: “she just doesn’t swallow.” There’s teasing and laughter in his voice.  
Daisy pouts, squirts some body-wash in her palm, and rubs the suds over her chest: “it gives me heart burn,” she says, perfectly sincere.  
And it’s so random that a laugh bursts out of Derek. Loud and big and free, because these two, honestly. What the actual fuck. He laughs, pulls the shower-head down, still laughing; runs water over Daisy, helping her clean up.  
“Let’s get out of the shower,” he says then, turning off the water. Daisy looks at him with what’s probably the closest to judgmental that her magical creature face can do, and Derek realizes what he must have sounded like. Like he wants to be done now that he got his. It chafes a bit, that she’d think he’s such an asshole.  
“No,” he says, laying a careful hand on her hip, rubbing his thumb on the bone. It’s weird and warm, and a little breathless to feel so unsure if he’s allowed to, after having come on her. But he loves how small and pale she looks in his hands. Breakable. Pleasure twists in him like a large, savage snake. Bad pleasure. Wrong pleasure. Pleasure that wants to tear bloody chunks, feel them stick in its teeth.  
He flicks a look at Stiles, whose leaning a shoulder against the shower wall, kind of cradling his more than a half hard dick, smirking. Always smirking.  
“I mean,” Derek says, trying to not get flustered: “I mean we should go to a bedroom, because it’s … the water, we shouldn’t let all this clean water just run down the drain,” he finishes a little lamely. God, why do they still fluster him? He knows their buttons now, he burned his shame down, he can smirk and fuck just like they do. Right? Right.

Daisy looks at him with blank, huge eyes for a moment, mouth a blooming bruise of pink and red. Then crescent dimples carve deep into her cheeks and she’s laughing with her stupid baby teeth all showing - rows of tiny pearly whites; filling the bathroom with giggles.  
“Oh my god,” she laughs, turning and grabbing a towel, passing it to Stiles, then another to Derek: “you are so sweet,” she mumbles into the soft folds of terry, rubbing it over her face; bending over to dry her hair.  
“I am not sweet,” Derek grouses, haphazardly drying his own chest. Stiles pats his towel on Derek’s back.  
“Of course you are,” he says: “you want to save the world.”  
Derek doesn’t say anything to that; instead he lets himself be steered out of the bathroom and towards Stiles’ bedroom. 

The door gets closed behind them; locked with a muted snick. The mood thickens and shifts - from shower-heated, half-damp, laughter-softened - to something sharper and spikier. 

Stiles sits on the edge of the bed, holding Daisy’s hand, reaching out for Derek.  
“What do you want to do, big guy?” he says, looking at Derek through his lashes, easy as pie, as Sunday morning, as if his dick hadn’t been hard for like an hour now. H o w does he do that?  
“I …” Derek starts. Stops. Because where does he even start? And who died and made him king all of a sudden? Why does he have to decide?  
“What do you want to do first?” Daisy elaborates, smiles her simple, dimpled smile again. It helps. Derek remembers their shuddery reactions to him tapping into their dynamic. He wants that again. He wants Stiles to lose control. He wants Daisy to go loopy with arousal. Break open and reveal her gooey center with how good it is.  
“Well,” he says, stepping into their space, putting his hand back on Daisy’s hip, sinking fingertips into pale, tender skin; reveling in how Stiles’ eyes are drawn to it, in the click of his Adam’s apple: “for starters, I wanna return the favor, I wanna eat you out. If your daddy says you can come, that is.”  
Stiles’ dick visibly twitches, Derek swears it does. Daisy breathes out loudly through her nose, lets go of Stiles hand and clasps both of hers into the universal ‘please please please.’ Tips of her pointer fingers against her lower lip. It’s ridiculous. It’s also so fucking hot that Derek feels the beginnings of another hard-on warming in his balls.  
“I don’t know,” Stiles drawls, folds his long fingers into a loose fist around his own cock, lazily pumps it: “you just got what you asked for in the shower, wouldn’t wanna spoil you.”  
Daisy makes a tiny little sound of disappointment. A meep of displeasure. And yup, yes, that’s Derek definitely getting hard again.  
“How about,” Stiles’ voice is a slow, drippy honey: “Derek eats you out, because he’s been good, right? And he wanted to, so he gets to. And I watch and think on whether you get to come.”  
“I’ve been good,” Daisy starts, but stops at Stiles’ “ah ah ah” fingers; pouts with a ludicrous lower lip.  
Derek keeps his hand on Daisy’s hip as he goes to his knees. Then slides it all the way down to grab a delicate ankle; maneuvers one of Daisy’s thighs up and over his shoulder, pushes into the tiny space to breathe hot air over her pussy. Her hips tick. She’s too short though, has to come up on tippy toes, teetering and imbalanced, resting all of her weight on Derek. She makes that same meeping sound, when Derek tongues her. Both of her hands come down to his head, grabbing fistfuls of hair. She wobbles, and Derek wraps his other hand around, holds on to the straining glute of the leg she’s standing on. He lets spit pool in his mouth, licks at her with broad wet soft-tongued strokes she seems to like, because she sighs: “oh my god,” and pulls harder at his hair; tries to angle her hips to give him better access.  
“Yeah?” Derek angles his neck, pulls back to grin up at her with a wet mouth.  
Daisy nods frantically, then snaps their eye-contact to seek out Stiles.  
“Oh my god, daddy, he’s so beautiful, come see, who the fuck looks like that?” The ‘fuck’ is big and blunt in her mouth, but fills Derek with a sense of stupid accomplishment.  
Derek hears Stiles getting up, and walking around them as he opens his mouth against Daisy again. Stiles stops behind her, holds on to her thigh right next to where Derek is holding on to it. Derek feels his eyes on the top of his skull.  
“Does it feel good?” Stiles asks, voice soft. Daisy doesn’t answer, but her body jostles under Derek’s hands, lips and tongue with her nodding.  
“Does it feel different?”  
Daisy’s flesh jumps with her nodding again. Derek slides his hand closer to the juncture of her thigh; thumbs her folds, holds her open; flicks little kitten licks over her clit. Lets her mewls saturate the air in the room.  
“Use your words baby,” Stiles says; voice lower, hotter; no longer drippy honey but hot caramel: “how does it feel different?”  
“Please,” Daisy begs.  
“No baby,” Stiles says and Derek eases off her, goes back to the soft, broad licks. Looks up at Stiles.  
“He, he,” Daisy starts with a hitching breath.  
“She’s right, you look fucking gorgeous between her thighs,” Stiles says, voice modulating with awe. Derek smiles against Daisy’s puffy, wet pussy and Stiles bends down, twists around her; bites a quick, filthy kiss out of Derek, then rises back up again, licking his lips.  
“His beard is scratchy, feels good,” Daisy manages in the moment’s reprieve.  
“Does it scrape your thighs all raw, hm, Baby?” Stiles asks.  
Daisy nods again, pulls on Derek’s hair, trying to shift him, chasing pleasure or trying to stave it off, Derek doesn’t know, but he lets himself be moved. He’s not cruel. Yet.  
“You ready for a finger, baby?” Derek asks after a while, whispers it into the muted space between her pussy and his mouth. And feels both of them jolt; hold their breaths in synchrony.  
And he didn’t even mean it like that! Not like Stiles means it. It just slipped out - a stupid, generic endearment. But before he panics, or backtracks, or apologizes for over-stepping, Stiles breathes out a: “holy fuck dude, you’re killing me,” and Derek sees him wrap an extraordinarily gentle hand around Daisy’s chin, bend into their kiss, tongues sliding against each other out in the open, so Derek can see. Stiles pulls out of the kiss, stands up tall, and gives Derek another near black out, when he stares him right into the eye, and without blinking, or twitching, or a modicum of modesty says: “Baby worked up to most of a fist this weekend, in preparation of you fucking her little cunt through the floor when you get home, I think she’d love a finger.”


	9. Jinx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jinx,” Derek breathes, sweat stinging his eyes, mind blown with how slow, slow, slow, fucking reality-bendingly s l o w it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi *small wave* is anyone still there? Sorry it's taken a while. Also ... parts of this were produced under the duress of jetlag so ... i hope it's coherent. and it's more porn. then i have some non-porn panned for a chapter or so and then probably more porn. just lemme know if you don't want any more porn.  
> thank you for reading and feedback, xox

So Derek slides the back of his index finger over Daisy’s pussy, gathering up the wet mix of her slick and his spit. He rubs it into the already blushed flesh until she mewls and her thighs start trembling, then slowly feeds his finger in; crooks and pulls. He’s good at this OK? He can always, always find the good spot. Right now is not an exception. Daisy flails and gasps, and Derek knows he’s got it. Stiles’ long fingers wrap around her hips to help keep her upright, so Derek seals his mouth back over the softness; rolls his tongue as he fingerfucks her.  
“Please,” Daisy pants: “please please please please, I can’t, fucking please.” She winds her hands into his hair; pulls at it, but it’s too soft - a weak, confused pull.  
Derek unglues his mouth; leans back a bit, his finger is still in the hot, sticky mess of her cunt, but he stops moving it. Daisy keens like she’s stabbed, and Stiles looks down at Derek with a smoky, mean smile. Lifts an eyebrow in what Derek reads as a welcome to the dark side. And he didn’t even mean it like that, OK? He didn’t mean to tease and edge, he just wanted to see where Stiles wanted to go with it. But the animal impulses in his gut love every panting, shuddering second of Daisy teetering on the spikey edge of her pleasure. He wants to get her there again, then take it away. The fucked up power trip of it hums in his head.  
“Please,” Daisy’s voice is lost and thready, like her fingers in Derek’s hair.  
Derek blows a gentle stream of warm breath over her clit, basks in the way her breaths grow wetter and more desperate.  
“No,” Stiles says: “I think Derek wants you to wait; come on his dick.”

And fuck.  
Yes.  
Derek wants.

Daisy expels something that isn’t a word, really, but a sound that is both inquisitive and hopeful.  
“Yeah, let’s … let’s do that,” Derek says, massages his fingertip across the bundle of nerves inside her; watches her hips flinch one more time.  
“How do you wanna?” he asks, getting up, shaking his legs out. He’s hit – again - with how small and pale she is between his own dark, coarse strength and Stiles’ towering lengths.  
“I wanna top,” Daisy says, a stubborn line between her brows, still trying to catch her breath.  
Stiles laughs a big, high, clean laugh.  
“What about you?” Derek asks him.  
But Stiles, inexplicably, says: “I’m good.” Which, how? His dick is hard, and he hasn’t gotten to put it into anyone. And Derek really wants him to put it into someone, in any constellation Stiles’ manic mind may conjure up. Derek wants to see him have the best orgasm. His confusion must show, because Daisy offers an amused: “he has come like 14 times in the past 72 hours.” Which, Derek supposes, is a fair point. So he sits and scoots back on the bed. Daisy’s crawling after him, nimble like a cat, a greedy glint in her eyes. She throws a leg over Derek’s thighs, sits back and runs pointy, curious fingertips up and down on the delicate skin of his straining dick. It’s not meant to arouse, it’s just her, satiating a curiosity, but it makes Derek’s dick harder and hair stand on the back of his neck.  
“Oh, and you haven’t?” Stiles grins, but follows her. He kneewalks over, dick bobbing, and straddles Derek’s legs too. Daisy scoffs: “I’m a woman, I was built for multiple orgasms” over her shoulder. For a moment it’s really funny to Derek, but also feels like maybe this is a peek at who Daisy is outside of all this. Outside of what the world narrows down to, when her pussy’s wet, and she likes to be called ‘baby’.  
“That you were,” Stiles agrees, and wraps his arms around her from behind. One of them snakes up: over the buttery swell of a breast, a single finger-drawn line over a pink nipple, to where it closes - gently, but firmly - around her throat.  
“But really, I’m good,” Stiles looks at Derek now; speaks directly to him - open and sincere - no innuendoes, sharp teeth or sultry eyes. “I’m so good. Trust me. I have waited to see this, I don’t want to miss anything, I just wanna watch,” he adds. Daisy inhales and leans her head back, closes her eyes. And Derek can’t help but think of what her throat feels like under Stiles’ palm, trying to expand with breath. Daisy’s hands are still on Derek’s dick, so she must feel it respond to the thought, to the sight of them. She blinks open, drowns Derek in those wide pools of silver and gray, and Derek knows that like Stiles, she knows. She knows. They both know of the dark little pockets and crevices where the echoes of his manners sit; fermenting into something unknowable, but finely bubbled. Something they’re all drunk on. Stiles’ other hand slides down, over Daisy’s soft, vulnerable belly to possessively cup her pussy. He leans down to rub his nose over her cheek, snuffles into her ear and whispers something Derek doesn’t quite catch. Daisy shudders. The softly spoken words squirm into her body and vibrate there. It’s such a moment, such a moment. And Derek should feel left out, but he doesn’t. He just feels … grateful. He’s pretty sure it won’t last, but for right now, it just, it feels easy. Simple.  
“You ready, baby?” he asks. On purpose now. He’s a fast learner.  
“Oh my god,” Daisy moans.  
“That’s what I just asked her,” Stiles says, squeezes with the hand still covering Daisy’s pussy.  
Derek licks one of his own palms, rubs it over the head of his dick, then remembers: “condom?”  
“Yup,” Stiles says, letting go of Daisy, crawling to the bedside table and back with a strip of Magnums.  
“What,” he says to Derek’s pointed brows: “I’m a glass half full kinda guy, ok? And I love your dick, why would I risk cutting off its circulation?”  
Derek reaches out, but Stiles shakes his head and says: “I wanna do it.” He carefully tears the foil, rolls the latex down with confident, competent fingers; wraps his fist around the girth for a quick squeeze.  
“C’mon baby,” he says to Daisy, and tucks himself into Derek’s side. He rests his head on his hand, and he’s so close Derek can feel his breath.  
“I’ll knee you in the face,” Daisy warns.  
“No you won’t, c’mon, I wanna see.”  
Daisy does, in fact, almost knee Stiles in the face as she scoots closer. He bites the tender flesh of her thigh in retaliation, then sets his teeth softly in the skin of Derek’s side, making Derek almost jackknife up with how much it tickles. Derek’s so distracted by it, that Daisy fitting herself over him kind of takes him by surprise. He can’t feel the wetness through the condom, just the plush, hot give of her cunt. It’s so inviting that his hands move of their own volition, thumbs settling on her hipbones. He locks his hips though, to keep them from snapping up; wills his hands to not grab, pull, force Daisy down.  
Daisy sinks down a little, takes maybe two inches, stops, breathes. Blinks. She looks like a fairytale creature again. Unreal and dreamy, with eyes and lips a couple of sizes too big for her heart-shaped face. Derek reaches out to touch, and she hides a shuddery exhale into his palm. An: “oh my god,” whispered in a small voice. Her fingers move to where they’re connected - lingering touches rubbing just under the head of Derek’s dick; a soft, knowing stroke of her own clit.  
“Oh my god,” she says again, looking at Derek with eyes of awe. She switches her gaze to Stiles then, and a wild little grin pulls at a corner of her mouth. Stuck in a lopsided place between a snarl and a smile, she sinks down lower, too fast, bites her lip, and moves her hand to press down on her abdomen, where Derek thinks she can feel him. And that. Is insanely hot. Ambiguously perverse and fucking delicious.  
“Good?” Stiles asks, his face still very close to where Daisy’s slowly screwing herself down on Derek.  
“Yes,” they both say, at the same time.  
“Jinx,” Derek breathes, sweat stinging his eyes, mind blown with how slow, slow, slow, fucking reality-bendingly s l o w it is.  
“You owe me a coke,” Daisy adds, barely audible, sinking and stopping, sinking then stopping again, stopping, stopping, hand pressing down so hard Derek swears he can feel it from the inside.

"This is the hottest thing I've ever seen," Stiles says, voice choppy and half an octave lower than normal. Everything is too slow, and it makes Derek feel like crying, and the sensations wrap him up in a loopy cocoon of surreal, detached pleasure.  
"Derek, are you looking, look at this!" Stiles fingers are hot and insistent on his abs, so Derek raises his head, strains his neck to look down his body to where his dick is half buried in Daisy, splitting her open. It looks brutal.  
"Fuck," Derek groans and clenches his teeth to not flip Daisy, to not fuck himself in with quick, sharp jabs. In in in.  
"I wanna see," Daisy whispers; "it feels so fucking big."  
"It is so fucking big baby, you have no idea what it looks like, it's gorgeous, you're doing so well."  
"Wanna see," Daisy repeats, taking another inch or two, then stopping, thighs straining, muscles all bunched up.  
"Okay baby," Stiles say, rubs a soothing hand from Derek's chest to Daisy's thigh and back again. "I'm gonna take a picture, ok? Then you can see. Derek, can I take a picture?"  
Derek groans and thumps his head. Flicks his wrist in a 'sure, go ahead,' and tries to focus on the sound of Stiles scrambling, and not on how his jostling weight makes the mattress move, which makes the maddening, tight clutch on his dick clamp down harder, amplifies the inchmeal stripping of his sanity and control  
"You guys are killing me," he manages, after Stiles gets his picture, tosses his phone, and Daisy finally, finally, fucking finally sits on him; eyes wide, teeth sunk into her own lower lip.  
"Sorry, sorry," Stiles says. He leans over for a wet, bright, perfect kiss - tangerine sparks of good, and fresh, and yes, and sun skittering in Derek's blood. He rubs sweat off Derek's face, and pauses for a beat, nose touching Derek's, honey eyes intent: "you are so good, and so patient, and you are doing so well, man."  
The praise is weird and unexpected, and what, what, Derek didn’t need it, but it sinks into him like a cool wave into heat beaten sand. He opens for it, soaks it in, rolls it on his tongue along with the taste of Stiles. When Stiles pulls out of the kiss and lies down - nose to his temple, hand splayed on his chest like armor - Daisy leans in. The slide of his dick, when she moves, makes them both moan.  
"Can I kiss you?" Daisy whispers, pink puffy mouth a breath from Derek’s lips, and it's a punch in the solar plexus, when Derek realizes that he's buried balls deep in someone he's never even kissed. And that Daisy is really asking. Not for show, but really-really. Like, she would back off and just fuck him, if he said ‘no’. He nods mutely, lifting his chin and Daisy rubs the cool, slick surface of her absurd mouth over his, licks a fluttering tongue just inside his lower lip. She tastes like Stiles but not quite. Like Stiles but more. Like Stiles but less. Then she pushes herself up again, and starts fucking Derek in slow, measured rolls of her hips, fingernails digging sharp crescents into Derek’s pecks.  
“I’m gonna come,” she pants: “and then,” she angles her hips and shudders, and Derek wishes he knew if he’s meant to help yet. “Then I want you to fuck me like I don’t even matter. Just the way you want, however hard you want.” Her breath is rough, her face sweaty.  
“What if,” Derek huffs, feels her pussy spasm on him, feels more than hears Stiles make a noise somewhere to the side: “I want it sweet and slow?” The talking, he feels, is the only thing keeping his pins in; keeping him together, because he’s ready to fly apart, and he really doesn’t want to fly apart yet; he wants what Daisy’s offering, he wants to flip her and fuck her so deep into the mattress she can taste it.  
“You don’t” Daisy and Stiles say, almost at the same time. Daisy sounds nearly incoherent, but Stiles sounds like molten sugar on fresh sin, like he is getting everything he wanted for Christmas. And he’s jerking off now, finally. It claws at Derek and he clenches everything in his body not to come. But Daisy does. It’s sudden and almost violent. A sharp jerk in her spine, a tight clutch clutch of her cunt, and then she just … sags, noiselessly. Collapses in a sweaty pile of limbs on top of Derek, while Stiles mumbles a maniacal mantra of “c’mon, c’mon,” and Derek doesn’t know who he’s talking to, but it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, because everything that's been cooking in him finally erupts. He flips them over with a snarl. Pulls Daisy’s legs up and over, fists both of her bony ankles in one hand, and fucks her in quick, ruthless thrusts, angling his hips with vicious precision, banging the head of his dick into her g-spot. There’s a wall of sound and smell and sight, and someone might be crying, because Derek tastes tears, and Daisy must come again, but then Stiles comes on both of them, a hot splash of cum in some primal, lizard brain marking ritual that finally tips Derek over so hard he sees white.


	10. Late for class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He keeps pulling his phone out; thinking: “we need to talk” at it, and pushing it back into his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey babes. sorry this has taken a while to post. also sorry it is no longer pure porn. well a non-porn chapter was in order by now anyway, but it ... uh ... strayed #owmyheart
> 
> as always, i intensely appreciate your comments and kudos and the fact that you read <3

Derek wakes up alone in Stiles’ bed, late for his first class, with a sour taste of unease in his mouth. It’s not rejection per se, nor loneliness, but something with hints of both. It feels childish and too big at the same time; so he rolls over, groans into a pillow that doesn’t smell like his, and gets out of bed. None of the clothes strewn around the room belong to him, but he finds a pair of PJ bottoms that kind of fit; walks to the kitchen, focusing on the grit and crumbs underneath his bare feet to ignore those collecting in his chest.

“Oh, hey man.”  
Derek jumps. Well, he feels like jumping; outwardly he just stands there with a confused look on his face - bed-mussed, late, sentimental and in Stiles’ clothes. He’d, frankly, kind of forgotten about Scott’s entire existence.  
“Hey,” Derek agrees and lingers awkwardly in the doorway. It feels like a walk of shame, which is quite a feat in one’s own house. Scott pours him a mug of coffee, places it on the edge of the table closest to Derek and backs away towards the other end, where his half eaten cereal waits.  
What a good dude.  
“So,” he says after Derek’s added some milk and taken a couple of sips. “You met Daisy?”  
Derek’s super proud that he manages to not inhale any of his coffee, or choke, or in any other way be a fucking baby about this. Instead he nods and produces a non-committal ‘uh-huh.’  
“And how did that go?” Scott asks, rinsing his cereal bowl and setting it upside down on the towel. Derek takes it back; he’s not a good dude. He’s a nosy stoner.  
Because Scott is standing there, in a patch of sunlight, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and socks, and sneakers, and a kind smile; while Derek is nearly naked and … fuck, he’s scratching his belly in some sort of a nervous tick, and yup, that is absolutely dried cum pulling at his happy trail.  
“Uh,” Derek says, pulling his nervous fingers away, then burying them in the hair on the back of his head.  
“That good, huh?” Scott says. And his brown eyes are friendly, if crinkled at the corners with what might be concern.  
“No,” Derek says, because he doesn’t want Scott to think it was some major drama: “It was fine, she’s great, I like her.” Well ok, now Scott’s eyes are widening and a smile is teasing at his lips, and this wasn’t exactly what Derek wanted either. And why are they even having this conversation?! Has the man never heard of privacy? Why is this any of his business? Then again - Derek remembers with a sudden jolt of embarrassment - Stiles and Daisy did say something about having basically sexiled Scott, while explicitly naming him as part of the reason why.  
“Sorry you got exiled,” he mumbles.  
“No worries, man,” Scott says, and now he’s definitely smiling. “So you’re good?” he asks then.  
And it’s weird and unexpected, so Derek stops feeling flustered for a second, and really looks at him, flat in the eye; tries to read him. But there’s nothing there, just deep, dark, friendly brown.  
“Uh,” Derek hums: “I guess.”  
Scott frowns.  
“Look,” Derek says: “I’m late, and I should really hit the shower.” He makes a hasty retreat to hide in the bathroom like a girl. Well, not like a girl. Daisy would probably never hide in the bathroom. Also, the whole hiding in the bathroom isn’t working out all that well, because as soon as it starts filling with steam, his mind fills with fragmented, pornographic images of last night. Phantom fingers and mouths on his skin; echoes of moans in his ears. He finishes showering with record speed and sprints to his bedroom with sopping wet hair and a hard-on he’s refusing to touch.  
He kind of wants to call his mom. Which yeah, not gonna happen. He feels dirty even thinking about it. And what would he say? “Hi mom, I feel inexplicably weepy. I don’t exactly know why, but it has something to do with the fact that last night I fucked my brains out and into the girlfriend of the man I think I might be in love with.” Yeah, no. Nope. Nuh-uh. 

Instead he calls Erica. Which might also be a questionable choice.  
“D!” she shouts picking up. “Where have you been, asshole?”  
Derek smiles.  
“What’s up preggo?” he says.  
“Oh my god, you have no idea, I have a belly now, it’s totally hot.”  
Only Erica. Derek laughs.  
“So I thought,” Derek says: “we should do dinner? Haven’t seen you guys in ages.”  
“Sure,” Erica is obnoxiously crunching on something, straight into Derek’s ear. “How about Wednesday, bring Stiles?”

Bring Stiles. Bring Stiles. Because Erica, Boyd, Derek and Stiles have hung out once or twice between that kitchen blowjob and now.

“Uh.”  
The crunching ceases. It’s never good when Erica pauses to think.  
“D?” she asks, voice softer: “everything OK?”  
“I guess,” Derek says. But Erica is not Scott, and he can’t really leave the room if they’re not in the same room anyway. Plus he’s the one who started this conversation.  
“You guess,” Erica repeats: “why aren’t you sure?”  
And isn’t that the million dollar question. Why isn’t he sure? And what’s with all the moping? He had the best sex last night, what is with the goddamn moping. Honestly.  
“I don’t really know,” Derek confesses.  
Erica sighs.  
“Dude,” she intones, all parental disappointment.  
“You have to talk to people. Whatever’s going on with you and Stiles, you can’t just stew in silence, you have to talk about your problems.”  
“We don’t have a problem,” Derek says before he can stop himself, because why, why is he having this conversation with Erica, when he should be getting his ass to class?  
“Okay,” Erica drawls: “if you don’t have a problem, then why are you not sure you’re OK?”  
“I said we don’t have a problem, I might,” Derek grouses.  
There’s a beat or two of silence, then the crunching starts up again. It might be a celery stick. It’s gross. And rude. Super rude.  
“Is he an asshole?” Erica asks then, voice even softer than before, and great, now Derek apparently sounds like some sort of an abuse victim.  
“No,” he says: “he’s great, it’s just that he has a girlfriend.”  
Erica crunches, stops, crunches, stops. Walks somewhere and bangs what sounds like a cabinet door, tears into some plastic wrapping.  
“How is that not being an asshole?” she finally asks. “Cheating is like, Asshole 101.”  
“He’s not cheating,” Derek says.  
“Oh,” Erica says, voice clearing up: “so it’s like a poly thing?” And she says that as if it was somehow super logical and very obvious. Yeah, Derek’s heard of poly, kind of, but what? Why is everyone but him such a freaking sexual deviant?  
“I don’t know,” he snaps.  
“Oh boo,” Erica says: “talking is extra important in poly.”  
“How would you know? You’re way too jealous to let Boyd fuck anyone else.” So now Derek’s being kind of a dick. He knows.  
But Erica laughs: “true. Also, hey asshole, he doesn’t WANT to fuck anyone else, he has a whole lotta woman on his hands.”  
“Ew,” Derek’s transitioned from being a dick to being a toddler now, but it kind of makes him feel better. THIS is why he called Erica.  
“Yeah, yeah, anyway, poly’s not just about fucking, doofus. Talk to your partners, dude. I have to go, I’ll see you Wednesday.”  
And then she just hangs up. Because Derek might be somewhat of an asshole, but Erica is a complete asshole. And rude.

Partners.  
Partners. Not a partner and their partner. Partners. What the fuck, honestly. And what did she mean it’s not just about fucking. How the hell could it be about anything else? People aren’t built that way. Right? Derek pulls at his hair in frustration, tosses his phone on the bed and gets dressed for class. 

He gets over some of the soreness during the day.  
Kind of.  
There’s classes and people and emails from Deaton about misplaced samples, and running times on processing cycles, and the weather is weird. So Derek melts into something close enough to his own version of normal. But in the background his mind seems to be running a cycle on what Erica said. He keeps pulling his phone out; thinking: “we need to talk” at it, and pushing it back into his pocket. He keeps thinking he should Google poly, but doesn’t. 

Of course when he gets home, he’s kind of beyond those thoughts too, because the lower tiers of his Maslow’s pyramid are clawing at his attention. He’s been rained on, so his teeth are shattering with how cold he is. He’s also incredibly and murderously hungry. He guesses this is why - for the second time that day – he gets totally, completely and sincerely blindsided by the fact that someone he shares a house with is home. Stiles is home. Stiles, who meanders over, slow like sugar syrup, wraps his hands around Derek’s neck and smacks a wet kiss on his cheek. Stiles, who like an angel, says: “I made a lasagna.”

It is much later - after a near coma experience of too much food, and a change of clothes, when Stiles quite gracefully climbs into Derek’s lap, pushing him deeper into the soft couch cushions - that the soreness resurfaces again. The ache, the confusion, the near-resolve to start a conversation. Because Stiles presses close, rubs the tip of his ridiculous nose on Derek’s cheekbone and says: “I want you to fuck me.” And while Derek’s dick manages a half-chub in 30 seconds at that, the rest of him kind of grows still and sad again. There’s that grit in his chest, somewhere dangerously close to his heart; his shoulders tense up and his mouth tastes sour again.  
So he starts the conversation he should have probably started a long time ago. Well, he does his version of starting a conversation, which means mumbling a grumpy, reticent: “why?”  
But Stiles hears it, and must feel how only parts of Derek seem to be on board with the whole fucking plan, because he sits back, moves off Derek’s dick but leaves his hands on Derek’s shoulders. Looks at him, slow and careful, with lit up honey eyes.  
“Why?” he echoes. Lifts a brow; and a corner of his mouth is climbing up into the beginning of a grin. Derek knows that grin. It’s the grin that will wrap him in dirty compliments, sprinkle sugar and spice all over him just to lick it off.  
“I mean,” Derek says: “why now? Why not before? We’ve been doing this for months now and you never wanted to before.”  
Stiles frowns.  
Derek tries not to focus on how much he disliked calling whatever it is that they’ve been doing a vague “this.”  
“You thought I didn’t want you to fuck me?” Stiles asks, the grin’s gone, his eyes are intent, a darker hue of honey than before.  
Derek shrugs. He knows what he’s working with OK? He can’t expect people to want it in their butts. It’s kind of a lot.  
“Oh,” Stiles’ breath gusts over his face. “No, I wanted to,” he adds. “Sizequeen, remember?” A hint of playfulness appears on his face again, and his fingers are sliding down over Derek’s chest. If they get were they’re going - if those clever long fingers reach his dick - then this conversation will be over, Derek knows this.  
“Ok,” Derek says, a bit louder than before, because now that he’s started having this conversation, he is not going to stop. And if Stiles wanted to but didn’t, then Derek needs to know: “but why now?” 

He has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knows why. That he knows why now, why today; what changed. He doesn’t want to, but needs to hear it.  
Stiles gaze snaps away, slides down, then to the side. He seems shy all of the sudden.  
“Why, Stiles?” Derek asks again. The grit he’s been carrying around in his chest since the morning grows until it is no longer grit - it’s pebbles; until it’s no longer pebbles - its rocks. They grind as they grow; press their sharp, unyielding edges into his … fuck … heart.  
“Is it because of Daisy?” Derek asks with what feels the last of his resolve. He holds on to Stiles shoulders, shifts out from under his weight. Stiles is kneeling on the couch, a surprised look on his face.  
“What, Der?” he says, reaching a hand out, but letting it fall into his lap, when Derek stands up.  
“What, are you not supposed to get fucked by people she hasn’t been fucked by?” Derek might be kind of loud now. It’s hard to tell past the wreckage happening in his chest cavity.  
“No, Derek. I mean, kind of but,”  
“What, is this some sort of a rule you have for the side pieces you bring into your little slutty games?” Derek demands.  
“What?” Stiles looks pale now, and scared; eyes of honey congealed into a much darker brown of petrified tree sap, tens of thousands of years old.  
Derek crosses his arms over his shredded chest.  
“It’s not like that,” Stiles says.  
Which is not what Derek needed to hear. He needed to hear something else. He doesn’t know what exactly, but something else. Something clear. And he can’t keep standing here anymore, not when the insides of his entire torso have turned to chunky, bloody soup.  
So he leaves.


	11. Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nah,” the rage says: “we’re done, I don’t really talk to your kind, just needed to get it out of my system.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh ... proceed with care? hurt, angry, resentful people make bad choices.  
> #ohderek  
> as always, i thank you for reading and for talking to me about it <3

Derek meanders.  
It's weak and flaccid and he hates it. He wishes he could run. Run, run, run, until this grit, this muddy deluge of pain pours out of him with the sweat from his pores. Until he runs clean again. Until he puts himself back together the way he was, back into order, back into neatly packaged, tightly tied parcels of aims and means, manageable desires and predictable responses. Uncluttered, uncomplicated.  
But he doesn't want to run in jeans, and this is what he left the house in.  
And he feels changed.  
Altered, unequivocally transformed.  
He doesn't know how to go back and restring himself into a pre-Stiles Derek. The Derek of gentle, pastel colors. The Derek of earth tones and quiet feelings.  
Resentment mixes with heartache, and the cocktail is intoxicating, but in only the bad ways. It roils and froths - a mixture of hurt, rejection, anger and jealousy. 

So no, he can't go back to the house and change into running clothes. He can't. He can’t see Stiles right now. He'll have to go back eventually - this is where he sleeps, and he is not calling anyone right now, he is not explaining himself to anyone, he wants no one’s eyes on him, no one’s questions. So he will go back. Later. But not yet. He will go back, when the house is dark and sleepy, and creeping in quickly and quietly is normal behavior. Is to be expected. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing he does for Stiles. 

So instead of running, he drives around aimlessly; wanders around the park near the campus until it empties of people and slowly starts filling with the homeless and the junkies. Then he drives two towns over to the stupid strip mall, sits in their well-lit, sparsely filled parking lot and drinks Starbucks that tastes more like cardboard with each passing, grossly cooled down sip. He thinks of calling his mom again, but doesn’t pull out his phone. He doesn't want to see the missed calls or texts from Stiles. The heartless blank screen, when he finally does, really twists the knife in his gut.

The house is as dark and quiet as he willed it to be, when he finally sneaks in. And it … makes him angry. His footstep creak on the abandoned floors, and the sound is like a roar in his ears, because he is … So. Fucking. Angry.  
Angry at himself.  
But mostly angry at Stiles for not calling, not even sending a text to see where he went. Not asking him to go back. Not that he would have, but it just … he is so angry. He throws himself into bed like an injured animal and the anger drips out of him like blood and puss from wounds gone bad. It seeps into his linen as he tosses and turns - toxic, bitter juices he marinates in, somewhat asleep, kind of awake, all through the night. His brain - flush with epinephrine and nonepinephrine that makes him sweat, clench his fists and breathe too hard - is conjuring up all those times he knew, he knew, he fucking knew Stiles was trouble. His fucking deceitful honey eyes, the sinuous snake lines of his body, his long fingers. The smiles, the smiles, the gallery of smiles. The flattery. He seethes, eyes closed, teeth clenched for what feels like hours.

He climbs out of bed at 5 30. He must have dozed a little, but it can hardly be called sleep. So he’s jittery and out of his mind, full of noxious, detached energy, replenishing itself like a violent virus, building, building, metastasizing so he’s full of it, all anger - no reason. He’s tying his running shoes in the hallway, when Stiles stumbles out of his bedroom - barefoot and sleepwarm; soft and fragile. And Derek’s teeth descend - his rage spiking with the scent of weak, and vulnerable, and open to attack.  
“Hey,” Stiles says rubbing his eyes: “can we talk please?”  
Bite. Break. Maim. Derek’s rage is up on hind quarters, making demands. Now. Now. Tear and rend.  
“Nah,” the rage says: “we’re done, I don’t really talk to your kind, just needed to get it out of my system.”  
There’s a blank look on Stiles’ face. He’s pale, and there’s a moment when there’s just nothing, an absence, a void. Derek’s rage is exalted. High out of its gourd with this hole in Stiles expression, right where his thousand shades of sweet used to be. Derek did that. Derek’s rage, powerful and big, tore those smiles out of that face. It inflates with the satisfaction of blood on its tongue. Wants more, wants to claw deeper, bite down harder, tear chunk from chunk, limb from limb. So Derek stands up tall, crosses his arms over his chest and smirks meanly at Stiles’ vacant expression until he sees a flash of raw hurt, filling in the gaps with pain. And good. Good. That’s good. That’s what Derek’s rage wanted. Pain. Pain for everyone. He slams the door, tearing down the street on nimble predator feet.

Breath in. Breath out. A labored drag, a metallic taste. A heavy, steady thud of his feed.  
The rage recedes slowly.  
Recedes is the wrong word.  
Dilutes? It starts feeling wrong in Derek. Alien and misplaced, not something of him, but something in him. Because running actually does what Derek hoped it would do last night. Kind of, but not quite. It’s like he’s running with a full tank of toxic waste, and his sweat, as it runs down his temples and his spine, adds to it. So the anger doesn’t drain out of him, but his sweat dilutes it, painstakingly slow, drop by salty drop. By the time he is 14 miles into it, he has a sloshy gut brimming with an uneasy brew of petty resentment and fear, but no longer the blinding, insane rage he got out of bed with. He’s too exhausted to go to school and too uneasy to go back to the house. A vague sense of impending doom clings to him. Like disease. Like dirt. Like a bad smell. So he crumbles, wipes his sweaty face on the hem of his equally sweaty t-shirt and calls his mom.  
“Hey kiddo!” his mom says. She sounds so happy. He should really call her more often.  
It’s a breath of air and a punch in the gut. He … he didn’t do good. He … just can’t right now, but it’s. Not good. Bad.  
“Is there anyone using the apartment right now?” he asks, unclenching his teeth, still breathing hard from his run, happy about how it hides the strain in his voice. She has a small apartment about two hours from here. They keep saying it’s for business, but really, it’s mostly just for flights. His parent’s house is so far removed from civilization so flying anywhere is an ordeal. And too many people live on that god forsaken property, constantly insisting on going places.  
“No, not right now,” his mom says: “is everything OK?”  
Her voice has shifted from the husky hues of pleased to something alert. An edge that Derek’s always feared and admired. A sharpness that slides through bullshit and lies and anything hurting her family.  
Derek uses the truth to hide a lie: “fine, I was just running.” Drags in a deeper breath and adds: “my roommates have the flu, and I need to do some really important calculations for Deaton.”  
His mom hums, a softness back in her voice.  
“I thought I’d crash there for a couple of nights,” Derek lies, lies, lies: “make sure I don’t catch it.”  
“Oh,” his mom says: “sure, yeah, you have the key?”  
“Yeah, mom.”  
“Okay baby,” she says. Trusting him. Because he used to be trustworthy.  
“Thanks mom.”

He would have just driven off in his gross sweaty clothes if there were any other cars in the driveway, but there aren’t. Neither Stiles nor Scott are there, so he grabs the world’s quickest shower, a random set of clothes, his laptop and runs. The remnants of his rage, watered down and souring, slosh in his gut, vile like battery acid. He keeps thinking back to the blank look on Stiles face. The pale, vandalized expression; stripped of what makes Stiles Stiles. Emptied of the winks, the arching brow, the pink softness of the lip, curling into one of his ten billion inviting smiles. He did that. Derek did that. He wants to stop the car and throw up. Or buy a bottle of water. Breathe. But it feels right to drive and suffer.


	12. Silverskin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sits on the couch turning the phone around in his hands; chewing on his feelings. It’s an unpalatable, indigestible mess. A mouthful that keeps going around and around. Gristle of resentment and rejection, silverskin of guilt and regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey my lovelies. So this one is dialogue heavy. And I don't know if posting on a Sunday is like a major faux pas. 
> 
> We seem to be moving towards the exist in terms of the angst, huh ... 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and telling me what you think <3

The apartment smells like his mom. Or maybe just like their house - a mellow, fading mixture of rosemary, lemongrass and grapefruit - a secret combination of incents and candles and cleaning products she prefers. It’s like a caress; unearned and underserved, but needed. He sort of sags into the couch; laptop bag discarded right there at his feet. Then slowly tips over to his side; arms around himself, knees bent - a hair’s worth of dignity away from the fetal position. The scent wraps him up in a pseudo-hug, weighs down on his eyelids, loosens the painful clench in his chest until his breath evens out enough and he sinks into sleep. 

He dreams of thin fragile wrists and long, strong fingers cutting through air in what must be ASL, only Derek never learned, and he doesn’t know, doesn’t know, doesn’t know what it means. Can’t read the signs. Some of them seem alluring, inviting and kind. Others almost aggressive. A wrenching, twisting motion, involving both hands. Now and then one of the hands lifts up and Derek gets a glimpse of a pink lower lip as yet another sign thumbs across a pointy, shaved chin. 

He wakes up to a darkening room, and the jarring blue of his flashing phone. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and why, and what. To figure out that it must be early evening; that he slept through most of the day; to remember how to operate his fingers enough for them to clumsily reach out and thumb at the screen. 

2 missed calls from Erica.  
Because it’s Wednesday.   
He forgot it was Wednesday. 

He forgot everything, as he got lost and then overtaken by the beast of the rage. As he tried to outrun it, then run with it, then from it. As he slept, hidden behind the curtain of his mothers scent, like a fucking baby.   
He rubs the crusty remnants of sleep from his eyes and squares his shoulders, walks his fingers over the screen to call Erica back. Braces for impact. Welcomes it, really, because he deserves it. If anything the nap only amplified the feeling that he did a bad thing. 

“Dude, where the fuck are you, we were supposed to have dinner,” Erica says.   
“I’m really sorry,” he grates out with a rusty voice: “stuff happened and I completely forgot.”  
“Well whatever, get your ass over here,” Erica says, mildly annoyed but not as much as Derek expects. Deserves. Yearns.   
“Can’t,” he sighs.   
“Why not?” Erica demands; getting closer to the angry Derek is looking for. She snaps a quieter “I don’t fucking know” directed away from the speaker, probably in response to something Boyd asks.   
“I’m at the apartment,” Derek says.   
A beat of silence. Then:  
“Your mother’s apartment?”   
“Yeah.”  
There’s a another stretch of silence, then Boyd saying something, too far away or quiet for Derek to discern.  
“Uh … why?” Erica’s voice is that measured, neutral tone now. The one she only uses when she is truly confused. Because Erica, if not confused, has a clear, strong feeling about everything. So she never sounds neutral. She sounds angry or sad or relieved. Happy, or fucking exalted, but not neutral.   
“I … just … Stiles and I got into a fight, I needed some space.”

Got into a fight. Is that what happened? Suddenly he realizes he does not know what happened. And Erica will ask in 4 … 3 … 2 … 

“What happened?” Erica asks.   
“I really don’t know,” Derek sighs again, hopes Erica will leave it, although she’s never left a single thing in her life, why should she know. And Derek he deserves to be poked and prodded at. He ran away. Like a child. To his mom. Well not exactly, but for all intents and purposes. He let a strange, alien, violent animal take over, sink its teeth into the tender underbelly of someone he … someone he … of a person, another human being, and then ran away without mopping up the blood.   
“Dude,” Erica says. It's somewhere between exasperated and disappointed, and then there are scratchy noises of plastic sliding against hands and clothes, clacking against the tabletop. The alien quiet of the mute button having been clicked, and the surfacing sensation of it being deactivated again.   
“You ok, dude?” Boyd asks.   
Derek must sound off for Erica to surrender the phone to Boyd.   
“Do you guys have me on speaker?” Derek asks instead of answering.   
“Yes,” Erica says from what sounds like a couple of feet away. She sounds pissed.   
“You wanna talk about it?” Boyd asks.  
“Not really,” Derek breathes.   
“Do I need to go beat his ass?” Erica asks from the eerie, echoic distance. She sounds like god. If god was an irritable pregnant woman. Maybe they are. Would make more sense than many of the alternatives, Derek supposes.   
“No,” Derek admits.   
“Do I need to beat yours?” Erica asks.   
“Probably,” Derek suggests.   
He hears Erica mutter “oh for fucks sake” in a progressively distancing voice and some banging of what may be the doors of their kitchen cabinets.   
“She go for snacks?” he asks Boyd.   
“Yeah,” Boyd says, takes a deep breath and lets it out audibly, adds: “we’re here if you wanna crash. I have bourbon.”   
He doesn’t deserve this. Like he didn’t deserve to hide here, in this fake pod of home and safe and mom. But he’ll take it. Just like he took this.   
He thanks Boyd and hangs up. Sits on the couch turning the phone around in his hands; chewing on his feelings. It’s an unpalatable, indigestible mess. A mouthful that keeps going around and around. Gristle of resentment and rejection, silverskin of guilt and regret. Nothing in sight to wash it down with. Maybe he should go to Erica and Boyd’s, they have bourbon. Although in theory, his mom should have wine. He’s still flipping his phone through his fingers, when it almost gives him a heart attack by flashing and vibrating again.

An unknown number.   
He stares at it - stuck at the halfway point between two non-thoughts - until his thumb, almost of its own volition, swipes to accept the call. He raises the phone to his ear; manages a rough: “yeah?”  
“Hi Derek,” a voice says. A feminine voice. A soft, airy voice. Voice of a familiar stranger. An intimate stranger. Derek lets the familiarity seep into his skull, find the information about who it belongs to and latch onto it.  
The stranger waits, the connection between them patient and quiet.   
“Daisy,” Derek says, as his brain finally lives up to its title. His whole body tenses as the name leaves his lips. Because this is when he’ll finally be laid into. This is where he gets screamed at.   
Instead, after a little affirmative noise at Derek’s correct identification of her, Daisy asks: “what’s up?” just like that. The inquiring pause drags until it’s impossible for Derek to treat the utterance as a preamble to an exclamation, and he starts to treat it as a legitimate question. Which he doesn’t know how to answer.   
Does Daisy not know?   
There’s no way she doesn’t know, right?  
“Stiles and I…” he starts, but stops, it had felt wrong, when he said to Erica that they had had a fight. “I was mean to Stiles,” he finishes instead. It feels like … something … some sort of a shift within himself, to articulate it like this.   
“I heard,” Daisy confirms.   
Derek waits her to ask why, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything, just lingers on the line.   
“I don’t know why,” Derek hedges.  
Daisy makes a soft, birdlike noise, something that sounds like an “are you sure?” to Derek’s ears, but he could always ignore this interpretation. The benefit of non-verbal communication is that it’s so much easier to pretend to misinterpret.   
“I mean, I have some ideas on why, but I also think I probably overreacted.” Talking about it makes him feel simultaneously better and worse. It becomes real, when he talks about it. He knows the real is more manageable than the imagined, but it feels the other way around.   
“Probably,” Daisy agrees.   
Derek doesn’t understand this conversation. He wants to ask how Stiles is, but it seems inappropriate.   
“Why are you calling, Daisy?” he asks. There’s no bite in it.  
“I wanted to ask how you are,” Daisy says. There is a pointed exhale on the line, and a faint crackling sound with the muted inhale.   
“Are you smoking?” Derek asks.   
“Yes.”  
“I didn’t know you smoke.”  
“I don’t,” Daisy says.   
Derek snorts.   
“These are extenuating circumstances,” Daisy says, takes another drag.  
“Why do you care?” Derek asks, suddenly wishes he was smoking too.   
“Why do I care about what?”  
“About how I am.” Derek stands up and stretches his legs, walks over to the kitchen, finds a bottle of Merlot in the expected kitchen cabinet.   
“Because I love Stiles and his heart is breaking. Plus he is under the impression that you slutshamed him. Which I hope you didn’t do, because the heartbreak I can’t really save him from, if you don’t like him like that … but the second you and I would have words about.”   
Derek hears her take another drag, then move around and close the door. Maybe she was on a balcony, or somewhere outside. He searches the drawers for a wine opener. Doesn’t say anything. Sops up the confusing information, lets it leak into him. Stiles’ heart is breaking. Another wave of that better/worse feeling washes over him. Better because he finally has some confirmation, some reassurance that Stiles likes him. Worse, because he’s not likely to like him very much right now, maybe he never will again.   
“He really likes you, you know,” Daisy says, like the creepy mind-reading mystical creature she is. It sounds like she is taking stairs. he must have been outside then. The roof maybe? It was too quiet for a street. Even though Derek doesn’t even know where Daisy goes to school, just that getting there means a plane ride.   
“It’s not my place to tell you this, and I won’t say any more on this, but I don’t think I’ve seen Stiles like anyone that much and I’ve known him for a long time.”  
“What about you?” Derek asks, presses his phone to his ear with his shoulder and tries to open the wine.   
“What about me?” Daisy asks, there’s a sound of another door. Derek puts her on loudspeaker and sets the phone on the counter, makes quick work of the wine.   
“He likes you a lot,” Derek says, hides the resulting cringe into quick motions of finding a glass and pouring.  
“You drinking?” Daisy asks.  
“About to start,” Derek says.   
Daisy makes another bird sound. This one Derek doesn’t know how to interpret.   
“He does like me a lot,” Daisy says.   
“Then isn’t it … doesn’t it … wouldn’t it make sense for you to be pleased that he’s mad at me? Don’t you … worry?” Derek asks after a large sip. The tang sinks into his tongue like a branding iron. He doesn’t really drink wine, and this one might need to breathe.  
Daisy sighs: “you guys really didn’t talk about this at all, did you?”  
“Like about your relationship?” Derek asks and takes another sip despite just having decided to wait until it airs out: “he told me he has a girlfriend, but that it’s not … like … he indicated … I understood that it would not be cheating if we … did stuff.”  
It’s Daisy’s turn to snort.   
“Look,” Daisy says; suddenly sounds tired and hopelessly grown up: “I can’t fix this for you guys, frankly, it is not my place nor my job to do this, but you both seem miserable about the current state of affairs, you both seem to like each other, so you need to talk. Really talk.”  
Derek hums. She’s right.   
“Will he talk to me?”  
“Did you actually slutshame him?”  
Derek downs the rest of his wine, chokes on the intensity and pours himself another glass.   
“I might have,” he says. Squeezes his eyes shut like a toddler hiding from his own guilt.  
“Why?” Daisy finally asks.  
“I wanted to hurt him.”  
“Because?”  
“He hurt me, or I thought he did … I felt hurt.”  
Daisy sighs. Mutters something Derek doesn’t quite catch, but suspects to have the words “dudes” and “honestly” in it. Sighs again, then asks in a sudden, alert voice, a voice of someone, who just had a startling thought: “did we … do you feel we manipulated you into having sex with us?”  
“What?” Derek says: “no!” He’s really quite sure about this. They asked and he gave an informed consent. Stiles and him could have been much clearer about the feelings involved or not involved, but the sex was … ugh … what do they say? Safe, sane and consensual?   
“You sure?” Daisy asks.   
“Yeah.”  
“Ok, well … I hope you guys talk.”  
“Yeah.” So does Derek.


	13. Sanitizer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait,” he adds: “are you not … can you not,” he points at the poly book: “is that not a thing you wanna, not a thing you can do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* hi? Hello? Is anyone still there? I'm sorry for disappearing on you guys, life was kind of a diva to me for a while here. But here's a chapter of the dudes finally having a talk. the talk even.

Derek contemplated a thousand different options. Flowers, chocolates, a case of beer, a bottle of wine, a fucking teddy bear - but decided that none of those would work on Stiles even if he agrees to talk to Derek. Which is a big if. So finally he decided to just show up, and put all of his eggs in the basket of looking good.

Shallow?

Probably.

But Stiles always showers him with compliments. Showered. Not all of those were about his looks, but he can’t really book on his winning personality right now, when the winning personality is what was mean to Stiles. “Slutshamed,” him, according to Daisy. Derek Googled it and it is as appalling as it sounds. He also Googled polyamory. A lot. He may have bought a book.

Anyway, here he is, double parked, and leaning against his car like a freshly groomed cliché - in tight black jeans and a leather jacket – waiting for Stiles to get out of his last class for the day.

 

The double doors open, and a group of students bustle out like a mess of colorful leaves suddenly blown loose from the nook of the curb. Derek’s eyes immediately hone in on Stiles, he’s taller than most of those around him; his spiky messy hair isn’t hard to spot. He’s surrounded by people, who are all mindlessly, quietly drawn to him. Like always. So, for all intents and purposes, Stiles is fine. Stiles is … the same. He’s smiling at whatever someone is saying. But Derek sees a smudge of darkness under his eyes, testament to lack of peaceful sleep. He knows, because there’s a similar smudge under his own eyes. It gives him hope and fills him with guilt. Two in one, two contradictory, conflicting feelings, pulling him in different directions. Stiles always seems to stretch Derek out, until he’s spread too thin and something tears, or busts or breaks.

 

Stiles doesn’t stop smiling, when he notices Derek, but Derek almost hopes he had. The smile stays on, but it’s like someone turned off the lights from within. His eyes stop participating in the expression - the warm, glowing amber grows dark and weary. The weariness punches Derek in the solar plexus. Stiles says a couple of words to the girl closest to him, and breaks off from the group, who continue on down the pathway winding around the building towards the coffee shop everyone who takes classes here likes.

Stiles walks over with his plastic smile, on his long legs. Like a reluctant gazelle. Stops a couple of feet from Derek and sticks his thumbs into the straps of his backpack.

“Derek,” he says in that semi-polite way that people who don’t really want to stop to chat use instead of a ‘hi’. He rolls on the balls of his feet. Willing them to stay put, Derek guesses. Feet that want to flee.

“Hi Stiles,” Derek says, pushes off from his car and takes a step closer, but stops at the expression on Stiles’ face.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks. It’s neither here nor there. Not overtly hostile, but not … not either.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Derek says, then amends with: “I wanted to apologize. And talk to you, if you’ll talk to me.”

Stiles’ fingers spasm against the backpack straps and his face does a complicated thing.

“Apologize for?” he asks.

Derek scratches his nails through his hair, swallows the lump in his throat, tries to straighten his back and own it: “for being mean, for walking out, and uh … for … making it seem that I … uh … am … uh … morally judging your lifestyle, or your choices or … think that … uh … they’re wrong or … that I’m somehow better, because I don’t, I was just … angry and …”

Stiles narrows his eyes as Derek is mumbling; peers at him through suspicious slits of honey gold, framed by long dark lashes, but as Derek goes on … and on … and on … something in his face shifts. Derek doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but he’s run out of air and balls to keep talking so he just lets his voice peter off like a wind-up toy.

“Hurt,” Stiles says.

“Uh …what?”

“You were angry and hurt.”

Derek blinks at Stiles, who looks much less plastic now, and much more like Stiles, and even though the smudge of darkness is still there, and everything is still a mess, and up in the air; the familiarity of it, the soft, strong malleability of Stiles now out of his protective shell makes Derek want to touch him so bad he as to stuff his hands in his pockets to keep them from reaching out and grabbing.

“Yeah,” he slowly admits: “and jealous.”

Stiles winces. Combs long fingers through dark hair and half shrugs.

“That,” he says: “that part is on me, I … should have explained better.”

A fat raindrop falls on the bridge of his nose, splinters into a hundred little droplets and startles Stiles’ eyes wide.

“What,” Stiles says, looking up, all offended.

“It’s raining,” Derek says, because apparently, he’s regressed to stating the obvious now.

Stiles gives him a sarcastic look out of the corner of his eye. For some reason, it makes Derek grin.   
“Come on, get in the car,” he says, running around to the front door.

“I drove, and I’m parked right there,” Stiles says, pointing left towards the lots.

“Right, but just, give me five more minutes, ok? I’ll drive you to your car so you don’t get wet.”

Stiles reaches out for the door handle, and Derek might imagine it, it might be a trick his eyes are playing on him, an illusion warped by the splattering rain on the roof of his car, but he thinks Stiles might smile a little bit.

But then he bangs his door and Stiles bangs his and they’re encased in the weird non-silence of the warm, dark car, wrapped in the roaring water outside, the world on rinse cycle. Seems stupidly apt. Derek, again, doesn’t know what to say.

“So,” Stile say, drumming his fingers on the knees of his jeans, then fidgets in the seat.

“So,” Derek echoes: “I … am sorry.”

“You said,” Stile says and shifts again in his seat.

“Do you believe me?” Derek asks.

“I … what is this, what do you have here?” Stiles has planted his feet and lifted his hips off the seat and is blindly rooting around on the seat.

“Oh, a book, it was digging in sorry,” Stiles says, having found the offending item and reaching between the two seats to deposit it in the back.

The muted, barely there light from the street lamp hits the cover at more or less the same moment when Derek remembers what book this is and says: “just throw it in the back,” when Stiles says: “what’s this?”

“A book,” Derek says.

“On poly,” Stiles clarifies.

“Uh, yeah.”

Stiles places the book on his lap and traces the letters on the cover “More than two: a practical guide to ethical polyamory.”

“You bought a book on poly,” he surmises.

“Yeah,” Derek says, because it’s not like he can deny it. He only hopes Stiles doesn’t open it to find his margin notes.

“I …” Stiles starts, but stops.

Derek waits. Patience. Is important. He can be patient.

“I am sorry too,” Stiles finally says and this so wasn’t what Derek was expecting.

“What? Why?”

“For kind of … I don’t know, seducing you without explaining shit?” Stiles is still tracing the lines on the cover.

“I’m not a baby duck,” Derek says.

A smile twitches over Stiles’ face, fast and bright, like lightning.

“So,” Stiles says, turning more fully towards Derek, still holding on to the book. “You’re sorry, I’m sorry, you wanted to talk, I want to talk, you have a book, should we … do you have questions?”

Derek blinks at the sudden change of pace, tries to not hunch his shoulders under the billion-megawatt stream of attention shining on him.

“Did you like the book?” Stiles asks, voice a little softer.

“You’ve read it?” Derek asks instead of answering. And he doesn’t even know why he’s surprised. Of course, Stiles has read it.

Stiles nods.

“So … are you,” Derek starts, then powers through towards an actual question: “are you poly?”

“I guess,” Stiles says, expression open, nodding slightly.

And what kind of an answer is that?

“I mean … Daisy is … more poly than me, or really poly or … I don’t really, it’s kind of difficult to explain.”

Derek tries to make his face do that same open, non-judgmental, go-on nodding thing Stiles just did.

And Stiles goes on: “ok so … I … before I met Daisy, I just thought I had like … intimacy and commitment issues, because of … because of some stuff that happened, we can, we don’t need to talk about this right now, but,” Stiles isn’t looking at Derek anymore, he’s staring out through the windshield at the cascades of water. His fingers are patting the cover of the book in a gentling way. Maybe he’s self-soothing. Derek wants to reach out and touch his fingers, touch his face, touch his anything, but he’s not sure they’re there yet.

“So yeah,” Stiles goes on, still petting, still staring at the rain: “I used to just fuck around a lot and try not to be a giant dick about it and like … tell people that they shouldn’t fuck me, if they needed like … an attachment. I would just tell everyone I’m not the relationship kind.”

Derek feels his heart sink a little, even though there is the saving grace of the past tense in what Stiles is saying but still. Derek is the relationship kind. He really is.

“So then I met Daisy. She told me that while I might have commitment issues, I’m mostly just narrow minded and a dumbass, because not being the compulsory monogamy kind is not the same as not being the relationship kind.”

“Right,” Derek says. Because he gets that. He read the book. And he Googled. And it makes sense, kind of. “So, how does it work?” he asks.

“With me and Daisy?” Stiles tears his eyes off the rain and looks back at Derek.

Derek nods, then breathes in and out quick, and adds before he changes his mind: “and me?”

Stiles definitely smiles now.

“Well, Daisy and I have an agreement on like … other people, who are not us … she doesn’t really like fucking around just for kicks … so she, she has this girl that she has a thing with, that she sometimes sees, but she doesn’t just pick up strangers. And I … used to, and that was fine, but then I stopped.”

Stiles has stopped petting the book, and set it aside. He’s talking with his hands now.

Derek still wants to touch them. Touch him.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Because I was wooing you, and then I was fucking you, and we hadn’t talked about it, and I thought you’d mind. And I stopped wanting to.”

Something stupid and warm unfurls in Derek’s chest even though he tries to stop it.

“But you were still with Daisy, while you were with me.” Derek says. He’s not even sure why. He’s not even sure what he’s saying, what the function of this sentence is, is he … asking for something or complaining or?

“Well yea,” Stiles says.

“Wait,” he adds: “are you not … can you not,” he points at the poly book: “is that not a thing you wanna, not a thing you can do?”

And Derek thought about it a lot, OK? If anyone would have asked him a year ago, a month ago, maybe even a week ago, he would have said no. He would have said that this is definitely something he does not want to do. But now … he … well he sure as fuck doesn’t know how to do it, but it’s not a deal breaker.

“No …” he starts, watches Stiles’ face fall: “I mean … it’s not a deal breaker for me … I just, how does it work exactly?”

Stiles leans over the center console, swift like nature, and presses his wet, soft lips against Derek’s. Breathes a soft sound in through the surprised little O of Derek’s mouth, licks a warm tongue on his lower lip, then pulls back, just as sudden.

“Sorry,” he says.

Derek’s lips are tingling and he kind of can’t feel his face.

So he says: “no problem.”

Stiles laughs: “okay, back to the talk. The Talk!” he flails. Laughs again.

“You asked how it works, what do you mean? … You and I, we work however we can agree to work, or if we … you know work and uh ... And Daisy is so far OK with it and I’ll, or we’ll keep her in the loop and you … you have to be ok with the fact that I love her.” Stile’s voice wobbles on the word “love.” Shakes with effort and history and what Derek guesses is a metric ton of “some stuff that happened” that Stiles eluded to.

“Ok, and what about me?” Derek says. Because he’s not gonna ask about that stuff that happened right now. One big talk at a time.

“Oh,” Stiles says and looks perplexed for a moment: “you … um … well how do you, do you want to? Do you want to like … have other … people?”

“What.” Derek says. Because really, what.

“Um … like, so you want to fuck around? Or you have another partner?” Stiles says and his fingers are doing something .. something, something secret and tense and it looks like a half hidden cat’s cradle, or a spell, buried in his laps.

“No,” Derek says, slowly. Because he feels like a fragment of his skull just exploded off with how many people are suddenly sexually involved in this conversation, and he really wants to find the hand sanitizer from the glove compartment.

“No?”

Derek shakes his head and tries to stop thinking about hand sanitizer.

“Did I break you?” Stiles asks with a small grin.

Derek nods: “I meant,” he finally manages, reaching over Stiles for the fucking glove compartment and the hand sanitizer: “me and Daisy.”

Stiles watches, amused, as Derek squeezes some gel into his hands and rubs them, shakes his head, when Derek offers him the tube.

“Well,” Stiles says: “it’s kind of important that you don’t hate each other.”

Derek blinks.

Okay.

Well, he doesn’t hate Daisy at all.

“Does she hate me?” a thought dawns on him.

“Um .. no.” Stiles says with that teacher-and-the-slow-kid look.

“Good, that’s good,” Derek says.


	14. Slow and hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then Stiles says - softly, quietly - into the small warm space between their faces: “please fuck me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *very quietly creeps in* hi?  
> hello? Can I come in? Are you still here?  
> Ok so, I am sorry for abandoning this fic for so long, but I had to write all those other things for angry people with deadlines and ways to access me and harass me about them. So yeah ... anyway, I hope someone still wants to read this?  
> We're back on porn now. Yay! PORN!  
> Also, this is where I originally intended to end this fic. But then now I have some more porn ideas and then like, an actual plot idea ... idk, you wanna?  
> xox

Slowly, everything goes back to normal.  
No.  
That’s not right.  
Slowly everything spirals forward, coalesces into a new normal. It is similar to the previous normal, but a little better. Sturdier. Less likely to collapse like a house of cards, or scatter like dandelion fluff. Derek couldn’t describe it any better if he had to, this is just what it feels like. Same, same, but different. 

It kind of feels like Stiles is more Derek’s.  
He still spends a lot of his time on the phone with Daisy, but he’s made a habit of always including Derek for at least a moment. He’ll slip into Derek’s room, or insinuate himself by his side in the kitchen, slide in next to him on the living room couch. He’ll murmur: “say hi to Derek,” at his phone and point the screen at Derek. Daisy’s fairy creature face will look back from the little rectangle; an open portal between their life and hers. Or Derek’s life with Stiles, and Daisy’s life with Stiles, the latter is probably more correct.  
“Hi Daisy,” Derek will say as Stiles climbs in his lap or plasters himself to his side.  
“What are you up to?” Daisy will ask, as Stiles licks a stripe over Derek’s neck or kisses his ear or …  
“nothing much, was trying to take some notes for Deaton,” Derek will say, laughing and squirming: “until your boyfriend interrupted and stuck his hand down my pants.”  
“Our boyfriend,” Daisy will say, and a ball of warmth will explode in Derek’s gut and he’ll only be slightly embarrassed about how cheesy this all is.  
But then, before Stiles gets carried away, Daisy will say: “Stiles, let Derek work.”  
Stiles will protest, but grudgingly pull his hand out of Derek’s pants, meander off, laughing, or gesticulating, sometimes speaking too softly for Derek to catch separate words.  
But Stiles always comes back to Derek after he hangs up. Snuggles against him, runs absent-minded fingers through the hair on his forearms. Kind of like right now. They’re on Derek’s bed, legs tangled, ridiculously face-to-face, just breathing each other’s air. Derek was reading, but his textbook is discarded now, highlighters strewn where they fell. 

 

And then Stiles says - softly, quietly - into the small warm space between their faces: “please fuck me.” He is so close to Derek that Derek can’t tell what expression he’s wearing; can’t see his mouth or his eyebrows, just his eyes, where gold swirls around warm brown, which is slowly being eaten away by a widening black of the pupil. Stiles blinks his long eyelashes and Derek feels himself get hard way too fast, but it doesn’t feel frantic, it feels kind of dreamy. And monumental. An acknowledgement of everything that went wrong the last time they were at this particular junction, but without dwelling on it. Derek is, yet again, in awe of Stiles’ ability to manage emotional situations. Because if Derek had to imagine Stiles initiating again, he’d have guessed that Stiles would smirk, cant his hips, and say something like: “I want you to fuck me,” or “are you gonna fuck me any time soon? I’m getting old here,” which would have made Derek feel … yes, still turned on, but also vulnerable and self-conscious and kind of guilty about last time. It would have been Stiles driving the bus. Like he always is. But now, this - the gentle, honest request - exhaled into their small, shared space? It’s a gift. It fills Derek with an odd sense of gratitude and power, something big and deep and somewhat still sweet.  
So he whispers an “ok,” against Stiles’ mouth before rolling them. Stiles is under him; pliant but strong, sinking into the mattress under Derek’s bulk. 

A peal of laughter bursts out of Stiles and Derek eats it all, swallows the sounds and licks at Stiles’ mouth. Tip of his tongue across the seam of Stiles’ lips, then over the edge of his teeth. He angles his hips and grinds harder into Stiles - dick to dick - both hard, and slides his tongue deeper into Stiles mouth. Stiles makes another noise, no longer a laugh, more of a noisy, needy breath. He wraps both of his arms around Derek, tugs his fingers through Derek’s hair; running them down his back; pulling Derek in by the hips.  
They stay like this for a while, kissing and grinding until Derek rests his weight on one of his forearms, sweeps the other hand down Stiles’ side and then back up under his t-shirt, fingers sliding on warm skin, over the trail of hair, up to Stiles’ chest where he tweaks a nipple hard enough to yank a squeak and a flail out of Stiles. Derek uses Stiles’ loosened grip to plant both of his knees and push himself up.  
It really is the most beautiful spread.  
Stiles - in Derek’s bed, lips spit slick, patches of red high on his cheeks; t-shirt rucked up, dick so obviously hard in his jeans. So Derek places his palm over it, feels it hot and hard and straining through the fabric. Let’s the pleasure and the power of it seep in.  
“That for me?” he asks, because he wants to hear Stiles say it. Say he’s hard for Derek. All for Derek.  
A “fuck” tumbles from Stiles’ lips and he bucks up. So Derek rubs harder, squeezes his fingers around the bulge of it, coaxes another expletive out of Stiles before he thumbs the button and pulls the zipper down.  
“No, not for me?” he asks, sending Stiles a sly look from under his eyelashes. He hooks his fingers into Stiles’ pants but doesn’t pull them down.  
“So much for you, all for you,” Stiles pants, and he tries to grin but there’s too much impatience and hunger in it for his words to sound anything but sincere.  
Derek kneewalks back, pulling Stiles jeans and boxers first down his hips then off his legs and tosses them somewhere behind him. Stiles dick smacks into his abdomen, hard and pink and perfect. There’s an aborted half movement in Stiles’ arms when he seems to want to grab himself, but then doesn’t. Derek swallows the spit pooling in his mouth as Stiles’ knees fall open in an obvious invitation. So Derek makes quick work of pulling off his own t-shirt.  
“Fuck, look at you, I will never get used to you,” Stiles says and makes grabby hands in Derek’s general direction.  
“Yeah?” Derek asks, crawling forward on all fours, but stopping short of Stiles demanding fingers. Instead he ducks his head and licks at wet stripe up the underside of Stiles’ dick. Gets comfortable between his legs, pushing them further apart with his shoulders.  
“Get this off,” he says, blindly pushing at Stiles’ t-shirt, his lips against the warm jut of Stiles’ dick. And then he stops paying attention to anything but that. He circles the base with his fingers, opens his lips around the crown, and slowly, wetly - so very very wetly - sinks down. Stiles squirms and makes another noise, but Derek keeps a slow, determined pace, sucking his mouth up then sinking down again. He will take Stiles apart. Into tiny, unrecognizable pieces, a whole lot of shrapnel of Stiles that no one but Derek will know how to put back together. He has all the time in the world. 

“Fuck, Derek, please,” Stiles is already begging.  
Derek removes his fist from the base of Stiles’ dick, rubs his hand over his thigh and into the hinge of his knee, pushes Stiles’ leg up and back. Opening Stiles up even more for Derek. He goes deep, takes Stiles into the back of his throat and keeps his pace even when Stiles starts making truly desperate noises and pulling at his hair. He lets spit run freely down, down Stiles’ dick, over his balls. Gathers some of it on his fingers and slowly rubs it behind Stiles’ balls, massaging his thumb over Stiles asshole, not pushing in, just kind of keeping a light pressure there.  
“Fuck, fuck, I can’t you gotta, I’m gonna come,” Stiles cries.  
“So come,” Derek says, lower lip under the head of Stiles’ dick, then sinks back down again. Sticks his tongue out over Stiles balls. There’s spit everywhere.  
“Fucking hell, oh god, dude, what are you doing, I didn’t know you could do that, Derek, Derek, I can’t, please, Derek.” Stiles’ words are melting into an inseparable string of sound, and instead of pulling on Derek’s hair he’s now just helplessly patting at it. It makes Derek feel invincible; it makes him feel ten feet tall. Like he can take this - this trust, this softness - and he can own every inch of it. He can take it and make it something new. Make Stiles feel so good. Everything under his mouth and fingers is slippery and his thumb is slowly sinking into the tight clutch of Stiles’ body without either of them making an effort to get it in.  
Derek hollows his cheeks a little the next time he comes up, goes even slower as he lowers his head. Stays there for a beat and lightly pulls at Stiles’ hole. Not forcing his way in but coaxing Stiles to open, to invite him in, to beg him with more than just his words.  
“Fuck,” is all the warning he gets, because Stiles is filling Derek’s mouth with cum, his hole twitching under Derek’s thumb, so lets the mess dribble and pushes it in with purpose. It only seems to draw out Stiles’ orgasm.

Derek pulls off Stiles’ dick with a slick pop.  
Takes a moment to admire.  
Stiles is slowly surfacing and lets him, doesn’t crack and jokes, just looks back at Derek through heavy-lidded eyes, a small smile curving his mouth.  
“What’d you make me come for?” he asks after he gets his breath back.  
“You’ll come again,” Derek assures him, pulling again with his thumb, reminding Stiles it is still there. Some sharpness flickers back into Stiles drowsy, fucked out face.  
“Yeah?” he asks, voice a tease.  
“Yeah,” Derek promises: “can you reach the lube?”  
Stiles searches blindly until his finger find the bottle, pressed tight between the headboard and the mattress. Derek snicks it open one handed, dribbles it directly on his thumb and on Stiles’ hole.  
“Ahh, cold, asshole!” Stiles exclaims.  
But Derek slides his other thumb through the mess and pushes it in alongside, crooks and lightly pulls on both.  
“Fuck, fuck, motherfucker.” Stiles arms come up and over his head, he braces his fingertips on the headboard, pushes back against Derek’s finger.  
“More, gimme more, c’mon,” he demands.  
But Derek has time. His dick’s hard and leaking in his sweatpants, but he’s fine. He can take it. It’s so worth it.  
So Derek bites the inside of Stiles’ thigh and keeps massaging Stiles’ hole with his thumbs, sometimes pulling, sometimes not, sometimes pulling one or the other almost out, running it on the rim.  
“C’mon please, please, I’m ready, let’s do this,” Stiles starts a moment later. His heels are digging into the covers, thighs straining, he’s trying to push himself harder on Derek’s fingers.  
Derek snorts.  
He pulls his thumbs out and makes a pointed-knuckle fist with one hand, roughly jams it against Stiles hole, not pushing in, just making Stiles feel the girth.  
“Yeah?” he asks, looking at Stiles over the arch of his filling dick, across the expanse of his torso.  
“Ok,” Stiles acquiesces, “ok so gimme a couple more fingers? Just, I can’t please, I just,”  
His dick is back to mostly hard now.  
It’s fucking with Derek’s head. It’s like booze or drugs or, booze and drugs. It expands in his blood like something ancient and wild.  
“Impatient,” Derek says in a dark voice. “Greedy.”  
Stiles’ eyes widen, a deeper flush licks across his neck: “I can ask nicely,” he says, clenches around the three middle fingers Derek slowly slips inside.  
“Is that what you want? For me to ask really nicely? With sugar on top?” Stiles voice is all honey sweet and full of air as he’s struggling not to pant.  
Derek snaps the cap of the lube again, drizzles some over his own knuckles as Stiles hisses. He gets higher up on his knees and rests his free hand next to Stiles head.  
“You could,” he agrees, tucks his little finger in and fucks Stiles with four digits, long deep strokes that make Stiles eyes roll back.  
“Or I could just make you come again,” Derek says, his lips almost touching Stiles’, he crooks his fingers, bangs Stiles with quick, snappy jabs, that make Stiles arch his neck and push so hard at the headboard his wrists crack.  
“Oh myyyyyy goooooooooooodd,” what starts as an exclamation morphs into a long, drawn out moan and a desperate chant of: “right there just there fuck please a little more” until Stiles comes. Again.  
Derek clicks his tongue.  
“Untouched,” he says. His self-satisfaction is so thick it’s pouring off him like sweat, rolling out over the bed like fog, wrapping itself around the bed, cocooning them in.  
“I’m dead,” Stiles says when he stops shaking. His voice is raspy.  
“That’s unfortunate, cause I’m gonna fuck you now,” Derek says, rolls Stiles over and slaps his hip. He steps out of his sweatpants and walks over to find a condom. His dick is so hard it almost gives him a limp. Stiles watches him with hazy eyes, but then gets his knees under him. His hole is wet and used and looks so fucking fuckable that Derek has to squeeze his eyes shut and clamp down on the base of his own dick before he can roll the condom on.  
Stiles is down on his forearms, face in the covers. He looks pliant and malleable like his bones have been fucked out of him, but he still tenses when Derek slowly nudges the head of his dick in.  
Derek drapes himself over Stiles, back to front, skin sticking with sweat. He whispers a low, self-assured: “shhh,” into Stiles ear. He’s got this. He knows how to do this. Stiles has him so jacked that he has no doubts, just an iron assurance that he’s got this. He will fuck Stiles through the floor and it will be the best thing that ever happened to Stiles.  
“shhh,” he breathes again, feels Stiles relax with the sound: “you can take it, c’mon.”  
Stiles lets out a broken noise, arches his back and spreads his legs more, braces his hands harder and exhales a “fuck me,” into the sheets.  
So Derek does, he grips Stiles hips and fucks him in those same long, slow, hard movements that he sucked his dick with. They’re antithetical to Stiles entire being, they fuck with his biorhythms, rearrange him. Because Stiles is fast and hard, or slow and sinuous. But Derek is slow and hard. He angles his hips until he finds Stiles prostate, fucks it unerringly until Stiles cries, and then until he comes again. He fucks him until there’s sweat dripping from Derek’s nose to Stiles back. Until there is nothing left of the world but their bodies slapping together. Derek fucks him until he comes and collapses on the bed, half on top of Stiles, and when he tries to roll off, maybe get rid of the condom, Stiles whisper: “no just stay there for a moment.”


End file.
